


There and There and There Again

by BlueEleanor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 109,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEleanor/pseuds/BlueEleanor
Summary: Buttercup Baggins has lived the MOST terriblest day a hobbit can live. Dear friends have died on the battlefield, leaving her heartbroken and certain her life would never be the same again. But worse, the dratted day refuses to end! What is a hobbit to do when she discovers she's reliving the same day...and no one else seems to remember it? (NaNoWriMo fun-the Hobbit done Groundhog Day-style with a dash of zany extras..and just who is that masked man?)





	1. Chapter 1

### Chapter 1: The Most Terriblest Day

_**23 November TA 2941** _

Buttercup Baggins stumbled from the makeshift infirmary with its stench of blood and decay, thrusting tent flaps aside in a desperate bid for freedom. She could take no more. Tears stung her eyes and fell in silent rivulets down her cheeks. Moans pursued her, those of the poor souls injured and dying this day.

Hobbits were not meant for this. Not meant to see such horrors as she’d beheld. They belonged in their rolling fields of green, safe from the outside world and its evils. Where deprivation was almost unknown, where the most frightening thing a person had to endure was the harsh tongue of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

_Bilbo was right to flee._ The very day Gandalf had approached her older brother about an adventure, her sibling had grabbed his overnight bag and packed in a rush. Not to join the wizard’s venture. Oh no, not her staid brother. 

No, Bilbo had waited only until the wizard had finished “defacing” the door to their home and departed, his pointed gray hat disappearing down Bagshot Row. The second Gandalf was out of sight, Bilbo had snuck out their green front door…and bolted in the opposite direction, babbling over one shoulder about a sudden and desperate need to visit their relatives in Crickhollow. 

Leaving a stunned Buttercup standing in the round doorway. 

Buttercup, with her head full of fanciful dreams and a hunger to experience more than Hobbiton could offer. Buttercup, who had inherited a full measure of their mother, Belladonna’s, thirst to experience life to its fullest. Buttercup, who was terribly more Tookish than Bilbo thought respectable.

The dangled lure of adventure had proved too much. While Bilbo raced off to safety, she had done the opposite, hopping through their smial with unrestrained exuberance and shaking her hips to music only she could hear. 

_She_ was going on an _adventure!_

A quick raid of her brother’s wardrobe provided her with knickers, tunic, vest and long coat. How she’d wriggled in delight as she’d disguised her curves—though she could have done without the discomfort of binding her chest flat, mind. A small price to pay, all things considered, but Buttercup enjoyed her creature comforts, and such restraints definitely fell under the heading of Not Comfortable. 

The hardest sacrifice was the clipping—no, the _butchering _—of her most becoming feature: her long mop of golden curls. The sight of the fallen locks lying discarded on the floor was enough to squeeze copious tears from her eyes, but it hadn’t shaken her resolve. Adventure called. She couldn’t wait!__

__When Gandalf had reappeared a few days later, she’d been ready. Her disguise had fooled the dwarves—too easily, she’d grumbled to herself—but Gandalf had adopted a knowing look, his eyes twinkling within his wrinkled face. He said not one word to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield that “Bilbo” was not Bilbo, nor that “he” was in fact female._ _

__A low moan escaped her. She’d been blind. Utterly innocent and naive. Stars had filled her eyes, and all of them had glowed the brighter upon her first sight of one Thorin Oakenshield, King in Exile. How brave he’d seemed. How noble, handsome, and exhilaratingly different from the hobbit males who had hesitantly approached her with courtship on their minds. (Each of whom had been driven off by her broom-wielding brother, thereby cementing her disdain of them. They were afraid? Of _Bilbo?)_ _ _

___I was a fool._ _ _

__Buttercup’s steps weaved like a drunkard’s, her bare feet stumbling over rocky, uneven, and bloodstained ground. By the dwarves’ Mahal, she was cold, and it had little to do with the slight nip to the air. With a high-pitched wail, one dirt- and blood-encrusted hand pressed to her lips, she fell to her knees. Her head turned, shorn blond curls whipping into her face. With blind eyes, her gaze was irresistibly pulled towards a nondescript tent that should have blended in with all the others that had sprung up on the battlefield after victory had been won._ _

__She knew that tent. Her mind had memorized each tear, each stain and crease. It would never fade from significance in her eyes, for it was within that tent that she had held Thorin’s hand as the would-be King under the Mountain had breathed his last. There, she’d heard his final, pained words._ _

__“There is more in you…of good than you know,” Thorin had panted, his blue eyes intent even as his life’s blood drained from his body. “Some courage…and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of…us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it…would be…a merrier world. But, sad or merry, I leave…it now. Fa-Farewell…my friend.”_ _

__Those penetrating blue eyes had turned glassy. It was as if the sun itself had been extinguished, leaving her in a world turned dark and colorless. Thorin, Fíli and Kíli were dead. After all they had sacrificed, all they had endured, their bodies would be entombed with their ancestors while Dain ascended to Erebor’s throne._ _

__Buttercup found herself resenting the other dwarf. No, Thorin’s second cousin, Dain, had done nothing to bring these terrible events to pass. He was alright, she supposed, though she found him brash and lacking in Thorin’s refinement._ _

__But it was wrong. _Thorin_ should sit on Erebor’s throne with his two sister-sons at his side. Where, she wondered, tears coming faster, was the justice in this? _ _

__She scrubbed at her face, uncaring as she disturbed fledgling scabs—the product of flying rocks, spills, and other minor mishaps during the Battle of Five Armies. She had escaped, having spent too much of the battle knocked senseless by a hurled rock meant for someone else. She’d lain there, all but untouched, while three she loved had—_ _

__“Bilbo, what are you doing out here alone?” Gandalf’s voice penetrated her despair just as a strong, wizened hand descended to her shoulder and squeezed._ _

__Buttercup’s arms dropped into her lap. “Isn’t that pointless now?” she asked with all the bitterness in her heart. Her friend’s face blurred and wavered through tears as she looked up at him. “Thorin is gone. He no longer lives to object to a female joining his Company.”_ _

__She mopped up tears with the back of one hand. “D-do you suppose if Bilbo had joined the Company, things might have turned out differently? Maybe if he’d been here instead of me, he’d have thought of some way…”_ _

__She could not continue for the painful, silent sobs shuddering through her chest. Guilt hung heavy on her head, for she’d failed to save them. Her dwarves. Her dear, stubborn, opinionated friends._ _

__Worse, she’d allowed Thorin to die with her lies still between them. The King in Exile had called her friend, but there she’d sat, holding his hand and watching him die…and the truth had lodged in her throat. She couldn’t speak, and so Thorin died believing things that were not so._ _

__Gandalf kneeled beside her, staff in one hand. “This is none of your doing, Buttercup Baggins. Bilbo could not have done more to protect the Company. You far exceeded my hopes and expectations.”_ _

__She sniffled, dashing away another tear as it leaked down her face. “I hate how this ended, Gandalf. It hurts so.”_ _

__With a sigh as ripe with loss as her own heart’s, Gandalf knelt beside her. “I had hoped for better myself,” he said heavily. “Some things are beyond the control of even kings and wizards. My dear, dear friend, this burden is one I wish I had not placed upon you.”_ _

__She snorted and sobbed, batting back a fresh wave of tears. “Who else was there? Lobelia? I still cannot fathom how the Company believed my act. Do I look like a male? Truly?” she asked with watery exasperation, pointing to her face. Why, it was far too delicate for masculinity. Surely._ _

___I am not a male,_ she sniffled to herself. _ _

__Gandalf’s smile was a pale shadow of its typical strength. “Did none of them ever question you?”_ _

__Buttercup found a wan smile. “Only Bombu—”_ _

__“About what?” a new voice intruded. “Bilbo? Are you alright, lad?” A floppy-hatted dwarf hurried the last few steps between them to squat before her, his brown eyes searching her face._ _

___Dear Bofur._ Buttercup shared a wobbly smile with Gandalf. Her ruse held, it seemed. She cleared her throat and managed, “I expect I will recover. You… Your cousin? How is Bifur?”_ _

__Gandalf patted her back and took his leave._ _

__Her eyes tugged to one side. _No, no, don’t look. I can’t bear to look anymore.__ _

__Buttercup trained her attention on Bofur’s face, carefully schooling her eyes away from the tent where Thorin, Fili, and Kili were laid. The knowledge that their bodies lingered there, silent and devoid of life where there had been such confounded stubbornness and vigor but hours before haunted the edges of her mind. It wasn’t _right.__ _

__Despite herself, she again had to drag her attention away from the guarded tent. Facing forward, she found Bofur’s eyes as teary as her own. The younger toymaker said softly, “Bifur will recover. On that, Oin is certain.”_ _

__Exquisite relief melted her shoulders. By the dwarves’ Maker, she couldn’t handle watching another one of her dwarves die. She just couldn’t. She’d sooner see her cousin Lobelia in possession of Bag End, and that was saying something. “Good,” she exhaled gustily. “Good.”_ _

__“Look at us carrying on like females,” Bofur attempted to jest, his brilliant smile all wilted._ _

__Tired of the charade, she told her friend and comrade as she stood and brushed herself off, “Well, at least one of us. I’m allowed to carry on like a female. I _am_ one.” _ _

__Not waiting for his reply, she hugged herself and walked away. What Buttercup Baggins, daughter of Belladonna Took, needed more than anything this night was some peace and privacy. She, a hobbit lass considered odd even by her own people’s standards, had not only rushed out her front door to trail after a wizard and a bunch of dwarves, but somewhere along the way, she’d fallen scandalously, madly in love._ _

__With _Thorin_ of all people. Not gentle Ori or funny Bofur. Not charming Kíli or brave Fíli. No, she had in Tookish fashion set her cap on the most inappropriate, inaccessible dwarf of them all._ _

__It would never work. She’d known that from the first moment she’d realized the path her affections were growing, but oh, how she’d cherished her growing admiration for the noble king-in-exile. She’d hugged it to her chest, content to bask in her one-sided joy. Even after he’d ordered her thrown from the ramparts, consumed with an illness of the mind, she’d loved the dwarf. And his final words to her…_ _

__Confound it, she’d almost blurted it all out, baring her heart. But she’d delayed, fear holding her tongue. Now, he was dead. The light was gone. It was far, far too late._ _

__Yes, privacy was what she needed now, for if Buttercup Baggins was Tookish enough to go on an adventure and fall in love—with a king!—she was also Baggins enough to obstinately cling to her composure until there were no eyes upon her._ _

__As soon as she found a shadow deep enough to hide within, Buttercup put on her magical ring, rendering herself invisible to all eyes…and cried herself hoarse. Perhaps it would have been better had she never left Bag End._ _


	2. The Next Day That Never Was

The most diabolically shrill neigh shocked Buttercup into instant, heart-yammering consciousness. She bolted straight up and scrambled backwards, her body instinctively seeking a defensive posture. _Danger,_ it screamed. _Danger!_

Her retreat pedaled her right off solid ground. _Oh dear._ Her eyes bugged, her arms windmilled, and a squeak escaped her lips. Down she tumbled…

…only to crash not into unforgiving ground but into a mess of spindly twigs and branches. The abused whatever-it-was snapped and crackled its outrage as it spewed its leafy guts into the air. Buttercup’s downward plunge halted, leaving her sprawled in a _most_ unladylike fashion with legs parted and one higher than the other. Her arms had flopped open to either side  
.  
Relief pushed away the fearful roaring in her ears. _Yavanna._ She panted, heart slowing from its mad gallop, and stared at the blue sky above. Well. That was exciting. Then she rolled her eyes at herself. Watch where you’re going—wasn’t the the first rule of surviving the Wilds her dwarves had pounded into her head? 

Heat stole into her cheeks. A dry thought: at least none had been present to bear witness. If they had, Bofur would _never_ let her live this down. 

After rubbing her face, Buttercup craned her neck about to assess her situation. Why, she was in a cluster of wildly overgrown bushes, she realized. Bushes squished up against the side of one of Dale’s half-ruined walls. 

A second neigh pierced the air (Buttercup jumped again at the loud noise, her heart Not Happy at the abuse). Her glare arrowed in on the culprit, a bay, black-maned horse who dared neigh a third time, the sound like so much laughter. The dratted thing trotted itself off—doubtless an escapee from the pen holding its fellows—and Buttercup gasped in outrage at the mocking—yes, yes, _mocking!_ —way it swished its tail back and forth. 

Why, that lousy, no good… This was the _second_ time that wretched animal had done this to her, and by Yavanna, this was one hobbit good and tired of such treatment from an overgrown fleabag. 

A thought. Her ire fled and her neck twisted uncomfortably as she tracked the misbegotten creature’s progress down the broken stone road. _Um._ A strange, unsettled feeling stole over her. 

She twisted back around, relieving neck strain. Her eyebrows pinched together. The night after Thorin had banished her from Erebor, she’d sought the comfort of solitude, climbing up one of Dale’s half-destroyed walls to win free of the crush of human and elf bodies busily scurrying to and fro. The next morning, she’d startled awake at the same heinous horse’s piercing neigh and fallen into bushes.

Bushes eerily like these. 

Oh, it was coincidence, and no doubt, but by the Shire, how could this possibly happen to her _again?_ She’d curled into a ball last night. On the ground. With her ring on. 

Now, here she was once more ensnared in a bush that must have been related to yesterday’s—with narrowed eyes, she concluded they were conspiring against her with the horse’s help—for the prickly things had the same unnatural ability to conform their spiny bodies around her until she could scarcely move a limb. Spitting a leaf out of her mouth, she struggled to right herself. 

“Elves and dragons,” she grumbled. When she won free, she was going to get her hands on some hedge clippers, just see if she didn’t! And maybe—her lips curled wickedly—she’d have a go at (ahem) trimming that horse’s tail, too, while she was at it. Perhaps (should it be male), she’d braid its mane and tail both with pretty pink flowers and ribbons so that it would never be able to hold its head high again. 

_Harrumph._ Serve the creature right.

“May I be of assistance?”

The breath wheezed from her lungs. _Oh, no._ Surely this could not all happen to her twice. Not only to be rudely awakened by the horse from evil’s abyss and wind up stuck in bloody bushes—again!—but for the entire event to be witnessed? 

Her cheeks and ears reddened with mortification. _Truly a smashing start to the day you’ve managed, Buttercup Baggins._ A low groan escaped her. Her eyes slowly slid to her left in search of the speaker, squinting at a face-full of early morning sunlight. She both did and didn’t want to know who had found her.

With how her morning was going, it was bound to be…

“You again?” she greeted weakly when he came into focus, wiggling some fingers his way. Oh, this just got better and better. 

She’d first encountered the reed-thin fellow while wandering through Lake-town’s marketplace during the Company’s short sojourn in the town of men. The men had called him mad in hushed voices, but from all Buttercup had overheard and witnessed, he was well-spoken and kindly.

He was odd, she’d grant. The man dressed outlandishly. There was a certain nonconformist, rakish bent about him.

“Let me aid you, my good fellow,” he said, hurrying to her. 

As she took to be his habit, he wore all black, from his knee-high boots to the half-cap, half-mask that covered the top portion of his face. His mustache was but a thin, dark blond line of hair above his upper lip, and his blue eyes were as pretty as a cloudless sky—not the match of Thorin’s mesmerizing blues, but attractive all the same. The absurdly thin sword he’d worn in Lake-town was still strapped to his waist, and she hysterically wondered how he’d managed to survive the Battle of Five Armies with it.

Her mind provided the image of him pricking his foes into irritated retreat, but just as swiftly came the image of one annoyed orc batting his flimsy weapon aside and lopping off his head—like an oliphant swatting a bee that wouldn’t leave it alone.

She gave up trying to free herself and sagged into the evil bush’s prickly embrace. “Miss,” she corrected, gaze on the sky. 

“Excuse me?” With no apparent effort, he scooped her up and set her on her feet. 

“I’m a miss, not a fellow,” she confided, ruffling her curls free of bush-bits. Though not as short as when she’d too-enthusiastically chopped them off in Bag End, her curls were still shorter than she preferred, forming a blond halo about her head that brushed her shoulders. 

“You have my profoundest apologies,” he said. 

She tiredly waved that off. “No need. I was pretending to be male. That you mistook me for one said my efforts were successful.” With a wrinkled nose, _“Too_ successful.” Shaking herself, she said, “I’m sorry, I know we met yesterday under the same circumstances…” She really, really wanted to know how such an exact repetition of events was possible. “…but I don’t believe I caught your name.”

His head cocked to one side. “You must be mistaken. We’ve not met before.” All as if she was teasing.

“Yes, we did.” Had he forgotten? Did his madness extend to his memory?

“No, my lady, we did not.”

“We did,” she said with more surety, one finger pointing at the offending bushes in question. “You plucked me from some bushes yesterday morning.” Come to think of it… She spun around, hands on hips. Why, this was the same wall. They _were_ the same dratted bushes!

She narrowed her eyes on them. _Clippers,_ she decided. When she wrapped her hands around some clippers, she’d teach the blighted things some manners.

“No, I didn’t,” he said, polite but baffled.

Her focus returned to him. “Yes, you did.”

“No, I’m positive I did not.”

With hands balled up on her hips, she stepped closer to him and studied what she could see of his face. He looked sincere enough. 

He bowed again with a flourish. “Westley.” Then rising, his chin lifting, “Or as I am known elsewhere, the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

The…what? And…what? Buttercup did a double-take. Her fingers itched for Sting, but really, what were the chances there was any truth to this man’s claim? 

Confirmation. He was as mad as a hare in Rethe. “You’re a pirate.”

“Scourge of the Seas,” he said lightly. 

Uh-huh. With those manners? “Well. Thank you for your assistance, Westley.” She was not calling him the Dread Pirate Roberts. “Perhaps we can do this again tomorrow.”

“As you wish.”

 _Peculiar. Very, very peculiar, Buttercup._ Or she wasn’t a Baggins. 

With a last backward glance—the “pirate” headed elsewhere, his hands clasped behind him—she hustled towards the clamor of many souls rousing for the day. A portion of her mind nibbled away at the bizarre morning. She’d fallen asleep with her ring on, but awakened…

She stopped dead in her tracks. Her breath hitched as her hands raced over her person. Truly? Could she be this stupid? 

The answer was obvious. Yes, she could and _was._

How could she overlook something so important? Had she lost it? How could she _lose_ it? _Oh, Buttercup, you silly ninny!_ She’d fallen asleep wearing it, by the Shire. Yet, she’d awakened on the confounded wall, as visible as the blessed sun. Where and what had—? 

Her fingers brushed cool metal. Sweet relief washed over her. The ring was in her pocket where she often tucked it away for safekeeping. She must have returned it there at some point and not remembered. 

Relinquishing her grip with reluctance—best not to alert anyone to its existence, she figured—she tapped her teeth with a fingernail. How had she gotten up on the wall once more? Surely no one would have put her there. A person would have to be a couple nuts short of a pie to pick up someone and…

Her head craned around. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. _Pirate, hmm?_ She’d have to keep on eye on that one.

A deep inhale, a shake of her shoulders, and she dismissed the concern. A crazy man fond of stashing hobbits in strange places was the least of her concerns. Worry for Bifur took dominance. Her friend had been severely wounded, and she wanted to assure herself he’d weathered the night successfully.

 _Please, Yavanna,_ she begged. _No more loss. I can’t bear to say goodbye to more of them in this fashion._ Thorin’s loss was a gaping wound with smaller Fíli and Kíli wounds cuddled up beside it. No more death. No more pain and loss touching the Company.

Though she wasn’t positive how deeply the sentiment was reciprocated, Buttercup dearly loved her dwarves. From light-fingered Nori to the perpetual optimist, Bofur, they’d all mined space for themselves in her heart. 

She banished her pessimism with determination. Bifur would be fine. He would. And so would Bofur, Bombur, Ori, Dori, Nori, Dwalin, Balin, Gloin, and Oin. Yes. She backed it up with a firm nod.  
Buttercup rounded a corner to head deeper into the ruins of Dale, her ears guiding her. _Just get to Bifur._ The rest, the morning’s oddities and annoyances, were superfluous. He and the others were what mattered.

So she maintained for a good block and half. 

Until her mind registered what it was her eyes were seeing. Until the ramifications of what she saw set in. Buttercup’s steps slowed of their own volition. Then they petered out altogether. Her brow furrowed. 

A glance behind. A glance to the fore. 

She continued onward, her frown growing. When she reached the first signs of habitation, ice slithered through her belly. _Yavanna._ She walked among the men and elves, noting discrepancies. There was no evidence of the devastation the trolls’ catapults had done the day before nor the black burn marks from the goblin sappers. None of the elves showed any signs of injury… 

Her feet stopped again. 

_…and neither do I._ No aches. No throbbing head from where a hurled stone had hit an invisible Buttercup soundly in the head. (She was not so foolish as to enter a battlefield without her ring, thank you very much.) She’d been unconscious for who knew how long. 

With trembling fingers, she reached up and touched her face. No scabs. No lacerations or grime. Her heart skipped one beat. What in the Shire was going on? For unless she’d suddenly acquired a miraculous healing ability (she was not that lucky) and been bathed while she slept (an uncomfortable notion), things had taken a decidedly kooky turn, and no mistake.

 _Gandalf._ If one needed answers, he was the soul to locate. 

Buttercup sprinted, ignoring as voices called out at many a near miss. Ahead, the Lord’s Hall, as Bard had identified it, came into view across a spacious ruin of a courtyard. The tall, rectangular building perched at the opposite end of the square atop a short flight of stone stairs. Though showing the same signs of decay as much of Dale, the hall had survived better than most, so much so that the men had set up their headquarters inside. 

With any luck, Gandalf would be within. _Oh, please, be here,_ she willed of her wizard friend as she raced across the courtyard and its silent, dusty fountain. “Gandalf!” she called, not bothering to use her “Bilbo-voice.” (After her disclosure to Bofur the night before, the news of her gender was bound to have spread far and wide.) “Gandalf!”

The wizard appeared on the top of the hall’s stairs. “Bilbo?” From beneath the wide brim of his pointed hat, her friend’s gray eyes crinkled in concern. “Whatever is the matter?”

Hovering to Gandalf’s side, Buttercup spotted that Alfrid Lickspittle fellow, but she paid him no mind as she scurried up the stairs, a bit breathless from fear. “Gandalf, what has happened?”

“Happened?”

What did he mean, what had happened? Wasn’t it obvious? “The damage is gone,” she said, ticking off one finger. A note of hysteria crept its way into her voice. (But by the dwarves’ Maker, she was due it!) “The injured are gone.” She added a second tick. Then with third finger flying upwards to join the first two, “My injuries are gone. Look at this. Look!” She pointed at her face. “No bruises. No cuts and scrapes.”

With a slight shake of the head, the wizard asked, “What do you mean, the damage is gone? Dale is far from rebuilt.”

Far from… What? “No,” she burst, arms waving. _Of course_ the city had not been rebuilt. Had he been at some of Radagast’s mushrooms? It was not like Gandalf to be so obtuse. “The damage the trolls did. The orcs and goblins. What _happened?”_

Those gray eyes seemed to kindle. “Orcs? What do you mean, orcs?”

 _“From the bloody battle we fought yesterday!”_ she all but screeched, one foot stamping the ground with every other syllable. Then she halted, feeling like a tween. But… But… _But!_

Gandalf knelt, one hand upon her shoulder. “Bilbo—”

“Oh, stop,” she huffed, rolling smarting eyes before blinking the tears away. “I let that cat out of the bag to Bofur last night, and—”

“Are you telling me,” her wizard said with sudden and cold anger, “that Thorin intended to toss you from the ramparts knowing you to be female?” 

She blinked. Truly blinked. The longest, slowest blink of her life. “That was the day before last.”

Those coal-gray eyes stared into hers for a long moment. “No, my dear girl. That was last night.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Another blink.

“Mithrandir.” At the Elvenking’s voice, Gandalf stood. His conical gray hat tilted as his attention turned back to the landing behind him. “Surely we have waited sufficient time,” the elf said softly. 

“Time?” Buttercup asked dumbly. “Time for what? What’s happening, Gandalf?”

“You know,” a new voice intruded. Bard’s. The man emerged from the Lord’s Hall, the same building, she wished it to be known, that the three had been using this same time _the day before_ prior to the battle that _did happen_ that same day _before._ Bard’s broad brow furrowed, his eyes kind but curious upon her. “You were there when the King under the Mountain agreed to exchange our share of the treasure for the Arkenstone.”

 _“Two nights ago,”_ she stressed. “Before Azog, and Bolg, and the goblins, and the trolls…” Her words tripped over themselves at the utterly nonplussed looks turned her way. “Before Thorin died,” she said weakly, her chin trembling.

“What’s this about Thorin dying?” Gandalf asked, and to her shock, he sounded shocked. What, she begged silently, was going on?

“Azog?” the Elvenking asked, his soft voice sharpening. “What of the Defiler?” 

She stared. Simply stared. 

Then with a low moan, Buttercup jumped down the stairs and darted though the crowds of men and elves, heart thumping painfully in her chest. Why did no one remember? Or why did they pretend nothing had happened? 

“Bilbo!” she heard Gandalf call in her wake, but she refused to halt. She had to see. 

Buttercup burst from Dale like a cork from a bottle. There, she slowed. The sound voices grew distant, muted. Only the wind and the rasps of her own breaths filled her ears. Her feet stopped. “No,” she whispered, eyes wide. “It was real.”

It had to be. Dreams did not come so vivid. 

Buttercup wrapped arms around her middle and trudged forward, barren compacted earth and pebbles beneath her bare feet. Towards Erebor, she walked, unable not to. Its gates were once more sealed with rubble from within the mountain. Its battlements and walls were unstained by the blood of defenders. 

It was as if the day before had been erased. There were no signs of earth churned up by thousands of heavy boots and canine paws. No bodies waiting to be buried. Nothing. The land was…empty.

Had it not happened? Truly? 

_It was real,_ whispered her soul. It was. She knew it. Thorin had _died._

So why was there no evidence to be found?

 _Maybe it is what will happen._ On its face, the notion was absurd, but her heart knew she hadn’t dreamed the deaths of her friends. She hadn’t imagined the screams, and fear, and pain of battle. Thorin had died and taken the sun with him.

Her chin lifted, her eyes flashed. Perhaps she was as mad as the Dread Pirate Roberts, but if there was any chance the nightmare she’d experienced was a warning, a vision, then by Yavanna, she’d make sure it never came to pass. Fíli, Kíli and…Thorin (her breath hitched)…would live. They had to.

Without letting herself list all the reasons why she was being a foolish ninny, she sprinted across the field towards the Lonely Mountain. She didn’t care if she was exiled. She didn’t care if Thorin ordered her shot on sight…

…or maybe she really did. 

Her pell-mell run ended with a high-pitched squeak when an arrow pierced the ground right where she’d been standing. Buttercup danced backwards, wide eyes lifting to find Thorin glaring down with bow in hand. Fíli, she noted wildly, was struggling to free himself from Dwalin’s restraint. Nori hovered in the background looking mighty conflicted. 

They were alive. Alivealivealivealive! Glee surged through her, and since her feet were already dancing, she did a small jig. They _lived!_ Yesterday’s horrible events didn’t need to happen! Oh, blessed Yavanna, she could sing her joy to the sky.

“Begone, thief!” Thorin bellowed. “I will not give you a chance to steal from us a second time.”

“Thorin,” she called back, tears leaking down cheeks that ached from beaming so broadly. “You’re okay! If you would just let me expl—” 

The next arrow had her diving onto the dirt. He’d aimed higher this time. Like for her head. 

That fast, glee did an about-face and roared into fury. Did he have any idea what he’d put her through? The sound of distant hoof beats drew her attention back to Dale, but only for a moment. Gandalf was coming for her, and coming fast, but she was not leaving until she had some words with Thorin Pigheaded Oakenshield. 

_Alive,_ a part of her tacked on, still joyously squealing. She granted it had a point, but she had one to make, too. 

“You, Thorin Oakenshield, are an absolute _humperdink,”_ she snapped, hands balled at her sides. “The nerve! Shooting at an unarmed female? Is that the honor you spout off about so often?”

“Female?” Dwalin, his voice loud with shock. Before him, Fíli mouthed the same words, his eyes wide, and Nori lost his balance and fell from the doorway back into Erebor.

“You wear a blade,” Thorin shouted back. Then her words must have registered, because his head jerked. His bow lowered a few inches, the tension slackening.

“Which does me what kind of good from down here, you impossible idiot?” she shouted back. “I suppose I could throw some pebbles,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “But I fail to see how that is equitable.”

She stomped nearer and wagged a finger up at him. “You listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield. I did not march all the way across the confounded Misty Mountains or endure wargs, and orcs, and goblins for you to go off and die like you did yesterday. I won’t have it.”

“Die?” Fíli shoved free of Dwalin’s grasp and leaned over the balustrade to look down upon her.

“I know this will sound insane,” she told the blond prince, pleading, “but I swear to you, Fíli, either I lived this day twice or I dreamed it. Azog returned. Bolg, too. They both led armies, thousands-strong, and they both showed up just after Dain arrived. Dain coordinated Erebor’s defense with the Elvenking and Bard, but there was so many of them. We were losing.” She dashed a tear off her face. “Everything went so wrong. And then Thorin led the Company from the mountain, and Azog… He kill you, Fíli. You, Thorin, and Kíli.”

Fili’s face whitened. Dwalin looked horrified. 

But then Thorin Oaken-jerk opened his mouth. “You’re right. It does sound insane,” Thorin denounced with scorn. “Did you think pretending to be female and concocting such a pathetic tale would make us believe your lies?”

Pretending to be female? _Pretending?_ Oh, now he’d done it. She searched in vain for just one lousy apple to lob at the fool’s head. Failing that, stamping one foot, she again glared upward. 

“You died on me!” she accused, finger pointed like an arrow. And through her angry words, her absolute devastation bled through. “How could you _die_ on me?” She mopped more tears from her cheeks, the pain of their loss ripping anew at her insides. 

Buttercup firmed her chin. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you believe me or not. You take better care of yourself, got it? If Azog and Bolg arrive, you darned well stay with the Company!” She splayed her arms. “And if nothing happens, you can have a good laugh at the silly hobbit maid stupid enough to care about your ungrateful self.”

“A trick,” Thorin said again from between clenched teeth. “Feigning to be a weepy miss to play upon our sympathies. I did not expect even you to stoop so low, Bilbo.”

Her jaw dropped. Snapped shut. Then dropped again. She’d never been so humiliated in her life, and that it was _Thorin_ disbelieving her gender had her flushing bright red. Was she truly so unattractive by dwarf standards?

With difficulty, knowing herself beet red, she tore her gaze from Thorin’s sharp blue eyes and sought his sister-son. A Thorin with some notion stuck in his head was a Thorin who couldn’t be moved. Not with a sledgehammer and a thousand dwarves. 

Fíli, however… “Don’t you dare die on me again. Protect yourself and your brother. I’m begging you. You watch your backs, you hear me?”

But there was Thorin, reaching for another arrow. “Enough! Off with you, you miserable rat! I will not stay my hand again.”

Her temper flared anew. Only deeper. Harder. Without thought, she scooped down, collected a sizable rock, and flung it at him so fast the rock was in flight before she’d truly thought about the wisdom of her actions. 

Thorin ducked, roaring something in his fury. She caught a glimpse of Fili and Dwalin wrestling the bow from Thorin, then she was snatched off the ground by Gandalf, his horse never slowing. 

“Gandalf,” she objected.

“Fool of a Took,” he berated.

“I had to,” she defended, twisting about to glance back at Erebor. No arrows pursued them, so she supposed Dwalin and Fili had succeeded in disarming their gold-mad king. Buttercup grimaced. Likely both would get an earful of Thorin’s temper for this. 

“It was folly,” Gandalf countered. “To confront a dragon-sick dwarf?”

“I had to,” she repeated to herself, once more facing forward. 

Yes, she’d had to. Just in case. Oh Yavanna, let it be needless. Let the events she remembered pass them all by.

But then Dain Ironfoot arrived on schedule, bristling with insult and full of threats. Though she tugged on Gandalf’s sleeve, shrilling that the orcs and goblins would be next (Gandalf would ever have her love for actually listening even if the stubborn dwarves and elves did not) all unfolded as it had the day before. The horrible army of orcs, wolves, wargs, trolls, bats, and goblins arrived, swarming at the defenders from multiple sides. 

As before, she found herself clutching Sting in blood-slicked hands, desperately trying to make a difference, to turn the tide that seemed bent upon drowning them all. Even with the ring jammed on her finger, rocks, bodies and blades slammed into her. Only the mithril armor Thorin had gifted her with kept her intact.

Despite her warnings, despite fighting hard to win her way to Thorin to protect his stubborn, ungrateful, and miserable hide, he had the gall—the unmitigated _nerve_ —to die on her again. 

And this time, as he fell, he took her with him. 

She didn’t live long enough to see Kíli and Fíli’s fates.


	3. Wait. Again? Truly?

An ear-splitting neigh jolted Buttercup straight up, only to topple with a shriek. She splashed down with leaves and twigs flying in all directions into a familiar and woody embrace. Thin branches and sprigs gouged her exposed skin, and she gasped, eyes wide. Her hands clutched her neck. 

Thorin. That rotten dwarf had died on her again. And then, whilst falling, his right arm had flung outward. The arm holding his overgrown ax. He’d… He’d _lobbed her head off._

Yet here she was. Again. In the dratted bush. Breathing. (Well, _wheezing_ might be more apt, but given her last memory, she thought it eminently appropriate.) 

As a mocking _clip-clop_ informed her of the wretched horse’s departure, she thrashed, desperate to win free. Enough was enough. Buttercup had no idea what was happening to her, but her heart clanged with horror at all she’d seen. She could not bear to watch Thorin die one more time. A hobbit could only take so much.

She had to find Gandalf. He had to fix this. 

“Westley!” she called, almost bursting into tears when the bushes refused to relinquish their hold on her. Sniffling, she muttered, “Oh, where is that confounded ma—Oh, there you are. Help?” She offered the masked man an uncertain smile. 

His mustache trembled with his own ghost of a smile, and his arms folded before his chest. “How,” he asked, “did you manage to climb in there?”

“I didn’t climb,” she assured him, blowing a stray leaf out of her face. “I fell.”

His chin lifted, his eyes swift to locate the section of city wall big enough for her to have been upon. Then with a spreading grin, “What were you doing up there?” He reached into the bush and gently extricated her before setting her on her feet.

“Sleeping,” she explained as if it was the most sensible answer in the world. She straightened her attire, feeling her cheeks heat. Then after coughing into one hand, she said, “Thank you again. Not to be unkind, but I do hope this is the last time we do this.”

“I beg your pardon?” His head cocked to one side.

She patted his arm but didn’t bother with explanations. Either they wouldn’t repeat this morning— _a soul can hope,_ she thought—or he wouldn’t remember it. Instead, she took off running, certain of her destination.

OoOoOo

Oh, no. She was _not_ going to be thwarted by one Alfrid Lickspittle. Buttercup feigned a rightward lunge, hoping to trip the man up, but he was on to her. When she tried to run left, he was there, blocking her.

Buttercup glared at the twerp, refusing to be deterred by the likes of _him._ Why, she’d stared death in the face from Erebor’s ramparts (she really _must_ sent Thorin a thank-you card for that), she’d been _shot at_ by the same dragon-sick dwarf, and then—then!—had her head lopped off. (Her hand stole up to touch her neck and gave it a good rub.)

Alfrid was tiresome and weaselly. But scary? Intimidating? She snorted to think there had once been a time she would have cowered before the buffoon. 

“Look here, now,” the odious man said as he continued to bar her from the Lord’s Hall, his arms outstretched and feet poised to counter her next try. “There are important people inside, and you aren’t invited.”

Buttercup’s teeth gnashed. She had no time for the fopdoodle. Why, he’d disguised himself as an old woman when the orcs and goblins had arrived. Instead of lifting arms as a man of valor, he’d hidden with the old and feeble. He, a man of hale body if unsound mind, a man thrice her size and likely more her weight!

 _Westley may be a tad…off…but he’s braver by leaps and bounds,_ she concluded with a sniff. She had no doubts the “Dread Pirate Roberts” had fought in the battle. 

Or at least, she was pretty certain he had. Come to think of it, she wasn’t positive, but in the pandemonium of battle, there was little chance of spotting one man dressed in black. 

“Get out of my way, Alfrid Lickspittle. I’m in no mood for your nonsense.” By the Shire, she was tempted to simply draw Sting and have at the man. Did he not perceive she was in urgency, here? 

“Quite full of yourself, aren’t you, halfling? But see, I’m—”

“I’m half of nothing,” she snapped. “I’m a hobbit, and a friend to both Gandalf the Gray and Bard the Bowman—”

“That’s _King_ Bard,” the lout said, one hand reaching out to claim her right elbow in a painful grip. “If you’ll not move along, then I’ll…”

With her left hand, Buttercup snatched hold of his ear and yanked hard, adding a good twist for effect. He yelped, his hold loosened, and she skedaddled. Her bare feet slapped across the old, cracked stone of the landing and into a hall. 

Victory to the hobbit!

“Gandalf,” she said, rushing across the echoing space to where the wizard stood framed along with the Elvenking and Bard in an archway leading to a balcony that overlooked Erebor. Beyond them, Erebor’s towering gates dominated the view, the space filled with rubble she’d helped her dwarves move since the gates of iron that had once guarded its entrance had been demolished by Smaug. 

At the sound of her voice, the three leaders’ low conversation halted. Heads panned in her direction. 

“Bilbo,” her friend greeted with a burdened smile. To be expected, she supposed, given he, Thranduil, Bard and their men planned to march on Erebor for the discussed exchange of Arkenstone for gold. 

An event that would not happen. She wondered, looking at Gandalf’s tired face, if perhaps he didn’t already suspect as much. 

With a short nod to both of the rulers, she said, “Gandalf, I need to talk to you.”

“What seems to be the difficulty, my dear friend?”

She took a deep breath. With hands twisted together at her waist, she said, “Something is wrong. Things are…broken.” _Oh, that was clear, Buttercup Baggins._

“Broken?”

Her shoulders drew back. Her chin lifted. “Alright then. You will believe me mad, but I assure you, it is not so. Time, Gandalf. _Time_ is broken. Either that or some Power is having a grand jest at my expense. What is today’s date?”

Confused and faintly impatient looks passed among the three. King Bard knelt upon one knee to bring himself closer to her level. “What is this about?” the handsome and regal dark-haired man asked, his brown eyes steady upon hers.

Buttercup rocked on her heels. “Alright,” she repeated. Then the words burst forth, tripping over one another like a fauntling taking his first steps. “This is the _third time_ I’ve lived this day. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But I’d like this to be fixed, if you don’t mind.” Her head craned back to bring Gandalf into view. “No, this is not a joke. I’m not quite Tookish enough for that. Not at a time like this.”

Gandalf leaned against his staff, his expression not revealing his thoughts. “Time? I see nothing amiss. Perhaps you have been dreaming. After the way you were summarily exiled—”

“No,” she cut off with a shake of her head. “No, Gandalf. That is not it. I have a good imagination, but it could never supply on its own the sights this day will bring. Again.” 

“Time repeating itself? Inconceivable,” Gandalf muttered, his attention seemingly inward.

Bah. Maybe third time was the charm. She faced the Elvenking and met his green and inquisitive eyes. Thorin, she thought, would be railing at her by now with no patience. Come to think of it, Thorin had shouted when she’d told him of this. It made her think better of Thranduil that he remained quiet. 

“Azog is coming,” she informed the elf sovereign. “Bolg, too. Each is leading an army of goblins and orcs, one from Dol Guldur and the other from Gundabad. Thorin summoned Dain Ironfoot to defend the mountain. The dwarves will be here first. But before Dain can do more than exchange insults with you, the orcs will arrive. They will flow around the mountain from both sides and outflank us.”

“When?” Thranduil asked in a voice cool with doubt yet attentive nonetheless. 

“It will begin well before elevenses.”

Leaf-green eyes bored into hers from beneath the crown of leaves and berries the Elvenking wore. “Mithrandir? I had not heard that the _periain_ possessed the gift of foresight.” At no time did the king’s focus leave her. 

“They do not. At least, not ever recorded.” Gandalf placed one hand upon Buttercup’s shoulder. “Bilbo—”

“Buttercup,” she corrected with a sigh. “Since no one will remember this anyway should tomorrow be another repeat of this day.” She gave him a look from under her eyelashes. “Unless we can fix things, Thorin won’t live long enough today to object.”

At that, Gandalf somehow managed to gain yet another inch or two in stature. To the other two males, he said, “A force from Gundabad… If this proves true, they must be taking the eastern pass through the Iron Hills.”

“It would keep them hidden until they round the mountain,” Bard agreed, rising to his feet. “We must secure Dale.” He paused in the archway. “I will not risk my people by not taking precautions. As unlikely as this seems, I deem it better to play this safe.”

Thranduil inclined his head. Gandalf murmured his assent before bringing Buttercup under deep scrutiny. “I agree. We should make all haste in preparing for battle.”

“I concur,” the Elvenking said. 

“Should her words prove true…” Gandalf’s regard landed on Buttercup like a stifling cloak. “…we will discuss how this came to be tonight, my friend. Or tomorrow at the latest.”

Tomorrow. She growled audibly, hands finding her hair and yanking. “What if there _is_ no tomorrow? Huh? Did you think of that? There wasn’t one today!”

She found herself unanimously ignored.

OoOoOo

Buttercup’s hand was welded to Sting’s hilt as men and elves—plus one wizard—rushed about to make Dale secure. If an army was coming, these defenders would not be caught out in the open. Instead of flooding the valley before the Lonely Mountain with their forces at the designated hour to exchange the Arkenstone for some of Erebor’s gold, Bard sent only a handful of riders. The rest remained in Dale, working feverishly to erect barricades and shore up walls.

The riders had barely left when they returned, reporting to Bard and Thranduil of Thorin’s refusal to honor the agreed upon exchange. Thorin, she overheard, had hurled insults from the battlements and followed them up with arrows. 

Thorin, Buttercup grumbled to herself, was growing altogether too fond of that wretched bow. 

She felt useless, biding her time while men and elves carried out tasks too big for her—hefting debris from one place in Dale to another to force any invaders into a narrow channel from which the men might more easily defend themselves. Such preventative measures, she heard Bard muttering, would not stop catapults such as she’d reported the trolls would bring, but every moment the enemy was delayed meant more lives spared. 

Buttercup tapped a fingernail against her front teeth, fretting and worrying. The first time she’d lived this day, she’d remained close to the Elvenking, aiding where she could. The second, she’d fought her way towards the Company when they’d emerged from their mountain, only to die because her foolish and invisible self had stood in the wrong place at the worst possible time. 

_How, Buttercup Baggins? Use that head of yours._ She didn’t know why the day kept repeating. Some fanciful part of her wondered if it was merely her desperate wish to save the dwarf she loved—and his sister-sons—that caused it, but that was ludicrous. She was a hobbit, not an elf-witch of untold power or one of the Valar. The world would not reorder itself on her account. (It certainly hadn’t upon her parents’ deaths.) 

So, what could cause it? And why did no one remember? She stamped one foot. At first word of the upcoming battle, Gandalf had rushed off to prepare, leaving her questions to drop into the dirt like discarded apple cores. She understood, truly. Lives came before a hobbit’s pestering questions. 

But these were not average questions. 

What, she asked herself, if time healed itself before she figured out a way to keep Thorin, Kíli and Fíli alive? She bit her thumb nail. Should she chase after the wizard and demand explanations— _Because that has worked so well in the past,_ a part of her snorted—or act as if this time, time might not consent to bend for her should she fail and her dwarves still die?

The image of Thorin’s battered, bleeding body returned to her along with his final words of friendship. Yes, he was gold-sick, but deep underneath that, the king she’d trudged through mud and muck to follow, the king she’d threatened Azog to save, remained. Thorin was in that gold-sick dwarf, and she wouldn’t give up on him. 

Not to the madness and not to death. 

Her jaw trembled and tears stung her eyes. _I can’t keep watching him die. Elves and dragons, it hurts so._

A tear escaped her control and trickled down her cheek. _So are you going to stand here weeping, or are you going to do something about it, hmm?_ Her obstinate Tookish side raised its head. 

Buttercup Baggins, Barrel-Rider and Master Riddler, was going to by the Shire do something about it. A small nod. Yes, indeed.

She hurried off, a plan forming in her mind.


	4. The Worstest of Mistakes

Buttercup slipped away from Dale with the ring on her finger and the stolen (ahem, yes, again) Arkenstone in her pocket. The knot in her belly warned she was about to make the biggest mistake of them all, but…but… _but!_ Hobbit on a mission. With a time crunch! She had to try something to shock Thorin from his madness.

Or so she kept telling herself. Truly, what else could she do? 

So, with guilt hanging heavy over her head—twice over a thief now, confound it—she kept her steps as quiet as mice until she was out of what she hoped was range of elvish ears. Then, she ran. 

_He’ll just shoot at you,_ a part of her caroled. 

_Not,_ she muttered back obstinately, _if he can’t see me._ And, again, perhaps by shocking the big lug by tossing him the Arkenstone, she’d at least get his attention. Thorin’s, not the gold-mad dwarf he’d become.

Either way, it was time for bold moves, and this was the most logical to try. ( _Bad, bad, bad idea,_ a part of her pestered the _entire_ way.)

Buttercup gained the base of the mountain with time to spare. From here, she could see Dale bustling with activity, and that must have drawn the dwarves’ curiosity. All of them stood upon the ramparts above Erebor’s gates with varying shades of suspicion, resignation and determination. Thorin, she saw, paced back and forth arrayed in heavy armor, that big ax she’d become too well-acquainted with in one hand. (Her hand stole upwards to give her poor neck a surreptitious rub, reassuring her it remained intact.) 

From where she stood, Buttercup could see the glint of gold around Thorin’s neck, across his brow, and upon each of his fingers. When he glanced towards Dale, there was little sanity in his eyes. 

_So, Buttercup Baggins. If Balin was right, you are about to make things worse._ Her fingernail rapped out an uncertain pattern on her top front teeth as she second-guessed her rashness. _It isn’t too late to rethink this brilliant strategy._  
She growled in frustration. _They **die.** How much worse can it get? _

Oh, enough with the hemming and hawing. She took off the ring.

Ori, forever wearing that gray hood he adored, saw her first. The ginger-haired dwarf with his perpetually ink-stained fingertips gasped and yanked on Dori’s sleeve. The two gaped, ginger and iron-gray heads close together, and she waggled some fingers at them, waiting as more and more of her Company realized they had an audience. 

Thorin was the fifth to spot her waiting silently with hands tucked in her pockets. The face that had been regal, proud and stoic during their long journey to the Lonely Mountain turned an unappealing and mottled red. “You!” he shouted, his lips bared in a snarl. “How dare you approach my kingdom, you sniveling Shire-rat?”

“You need new insults,” she said calmly. “That one is getting old, Thorin.” Her lips quirked in a sudden and teasing grin. Then she clucked her tongue with shammed sympathy. “You were a lot more eloquent when dressing down the Elvenking. ‘Shire-rat’? Is that the best you can do?” She winked. “At least give me something original.” 

“Traitor. Deceiver,” he said in a frighteningly low voice. 

“That’s still—”

The disgust and hatred that contorted his face shredded her attempt at humor. “Cursed was the day of your birth. Cursed were the teats that suckled such a faithless worm as yourself. I vow, from this time and forevermore, Durin’s folk with remember the twenty-third of September as a day of evil when Darkness spawned a new monster.”

_Whap, whap, whap._ Buttercup glanced down at her chest, confident she’d find those words manifested as arrows through her heart. Surely Thorin had just unleashed a full volley of the things, each sharp-tipped and fletched in feathers an angry red. 

Be careful what you wish for—how often had her father, Bungo, offered that sage advice? Perhaps, she thought, baiting the mad dwarf had not been the brightest of ideas. She shivered at the hatred Thorin exuded. 

It was the sickness. It wasn’t her Thorin speaking. She repeated that to herself as blue eyes full of venom burned down at her.

“You,” he finished in a harsh sneer, “are excrement we have wiped from our boots. Be off with you. We are well rid of you.”

She gave a weak little sniffle. Blinked her eyes rapidly. Then she got angry. How _dare_ he? She’d saved his miserable life! 

She stamped her foot. Fumbled for words equal in stature, determined to dress him down like a tween caught throwing the chicken eggs at the milk cow. Instead, outrage left her fumbling for words. “You… _idiot,”_ she sputtered. “You stupid, stupid… _dwarf!”_

Bofur snorted. “I thought it was eloquence you were after, lad.”

She shot him a short glare, one equal parts hurt and frustration. _Not helping, Bofur!_ She stomped one foot. “Oh, just…just…shut up.” Then back to Thorin, her tongue (hooray!) finally unlocking, “I was trying to save you! Trying to make you see how unreasonable you were being. More fool, me, I believed you too honorable, too strong to ever do this.”

“I have done noth—”

“You accused your own kin of turning on you. You exiled me for doing just as I had in the Misty Mountains, putting myself between you and danger,” she shouted rawly. “All I’ve ever done was try to protect you.”

“Lies.” How her heart ached to hear the betrayal drenching his voice with pain. “You are nothing but a…”

The Arkenstone smacked him in the chest, then it fell at his feet where it rolled like a child’s top. Thorin looked frozen in place, but Kíli reached down and hefted it aloft with wonder. Kíli grinned, tossed it into the air and caught it. “All is forgiven, Master Boggins.”

She tilted her head, considering options with lips pursed. _What more can they do? I’ve already been exiled._ “Mistress,” she corrected, erecting an awkward, stilted smile upon her face when all of them but one startled and moved closer to the railing to look down upon her. 

The exception claimed the Arkenstone from his nephew, his fingers reverent upon it. Then Thorin’s head shifted, bringing his face fully into view, and for one heart-breaking instant, the hateful expression that had seemed permanently affixed to his beloved mug melted. 

She saw him. _Thorin,_ the dwarf who’d entered her home and heart in Bag End. 

Their gazes collided, one sunken and ringed with dark circles, the other wide with hope. “Why do you do this?” he asked hoarsely. Then with sudden anger, “Mistress?”

She’d known Thorin wouldn’t be happy about that. Buttercup coughed into one hand and played with a small stone with the toes of her right foot. Her eyes skittered away from his. “Well, yes. You see, Gandalf asked my brother, Bilbo, to go with you.”

“And?” Thorin demanded.

She tugged upon the hem of her tunic. “Bilbo is a bit more…Baggins…than myself. Gandalf had no sooner left when he packed his bags and left town in a hurry.” 

The silence booming down from above was absolute and unanimous. She risked an upward glance. Thorin looked thunderstruck, Kíli and Fíli had jaws agape, and Bofur tugged upon one ear as if uncertain whether to believe her. Bombur, meanwhile, folded hands over his belly, a smirk upon his face. He’d been the only one to hint at her true gender. In private, of course.

“That explains it, lads,” Nori drawled, perching one hip upon the banister. His purple hood was down, and the three silver clasps in his reddish-brown beard glinted with his head shake. 

“Explains what?” she asked, tearing her focus from Thorin with difficulty.

“You,” Nori offered with a wicked grin. “We’d wondered if you’d suffered from some malady.”

Buttercup gave the hem of her yellow tunic (well, _once_ yellow, she conceded) another tug. “Malady?”

His grin sharpened all the more. “You,” the thief drawled, “stuffed your shorts early on.”

A small, mortified sound escaped her. Her ears felt scorching hot. “What?” Truly, how had she found herself in this conversation? There was an _army_ coming—two in fact!—and instead of discussing that, they were discussing…

Nori waved one hand. “Don’t bother denying it. We all noticed when you stopped. Thought you had some dread hobbit disease. Didn’t you wonder why we took pains to avoid physical contact for a couple weeks?”

“What?” Was that all she could manage? _Yes,_ a part of her affirmed.

“Well you went from…” As Nori’s hands began to form some gesture, Dori swatted him on the arm. 

“Nori!” Dori gasped. “Not in front of a lady.”

Clue enough to tell her what Nori had been about to demonstrate. Buttercup clapped both hands over her face, groaning. She’d thought no one had noticed. Yes, she’d stuffed her shorts to better emulate a male, but for them to _notice_ when she’d decided it was more uncomfortable than it was worth… 

They’d thought her _diseased?_ That her…her…maleness (she used the word gingerly, mortified) had been…blighted? 

Where was Azog? If there was any mercy in the world, perhaps he’d do her the good favor of showing up early to put her out of her misery. 

“It’s a trick,” came Thorin’s rumble. 

_And he’s gone again._ Buttercup took a bracing inhale before dropping her arms. Sure enough, the familiar lines of disgust twisted the King under the Mountain’s face into an ugly sneer. 

“He seeks sympathy to press a claim upon our treasure.”

“Then I wouldn’t have brought you the Arkenstone,” she said tiredly. “No one would be so stupid. Keep your treasure. All of it.” Then with exasperation. “Are you all so blind? I mean, I may not be the most beautiful hobbit in the Shire, but a _male?”_ She pointed to her face. “Does this look like the face of a male? Really?”

“We thought it unfortunate,” Ori blurted. 

“My _face_ is _unfortunate?”_ she ended on a shrill note. 

Ori’s eyes widened. His lips parted. Before he could explain— _He’d better explain,_ she huffed—Thorin the Dragon-Sick-Stick-in-the-Mud opened his big mouth.

“You deceived us,” Thorin rumbled ominously. The Arkenstone vanished, tucked out of sight.

_He’s sick,_ she reminded herself, grabbing hold of a temper that really, really wanted to be loosed so that it could frolic and play. “I didn’t think a female would be welcomed,” she said in a carefully even voice.

“And you were right. You have no place among us, liar.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” she burst, arms waving. “You were it. You were my one chance, don’t you see?” 

The anger on his face diminished, replaced by scrutiny. Intensity, though she did not know why.

“You were my only chance,” she repeated. “I never truly belonged in the Shire. Not like…” She bit off her words and looked away, collecting herself. Then returning to the dwarves, wincing as Thorin stormed off the balcony and disappeared into the mountain, she said in a small voice. “You’re my family. At least on my end.”

Not giving the others a chance to respond—too afraid of what they’d say in pity—she shook the vulnerability off. To Balin and Dwalin, she directed, “Azog is on his way, and his son. They lead armies thousands strong.”

“What?” Bofur asked, dropping something she didn’t see. 

“They are coming,” she said, her focus leaving Balin to narrow in upon Dwalin. “I thought returning the Arkenstone might help Thorin, but…” She shoved a curl from her eye. “They will swarm around both sides of the mountain. Dain will arrive first, but the Iron Hills dwarves will be hopelessly outnumbered.”

“How know you this?” Dwalin barked, hands tight about the stone banister. “The elves? Tharkûn?”

She shook her head, the skin at her nape prickling. Chancing a glance over her shoulder, she saw the elves taking up position.

All upon Dale’s walls. They weren’t moving into the valley. 

_Sweet Yavanna._ A picture formed in her mind: Dain and his three-hundred-some-odd strong force making their stand alone before Erebor’s gates. 

“They’ll be slaughtered,” she whispered. Then whipping around and craning her neck back, “Dwalin, they’ll be killed. If Thorin doesn’t let Dain’s dwarves into the mountain, if the elves don’t help them, they’ll die.”

He stared down from beneath bushy eyebrows, pinning her in place while Balin spun on a heel and rushed into Erebor. 

She hoped Balin intended to try to convince Thorin to let the other dwarves into the mountain, but would Thorin listen? Would the king shuck the dragon-sickness darkening his mind? If not, he’d leave Dain out to die. That, she didn’t doubt at all.

As she came to that heart-breaking conclusion, Dwalin snapped out orders in the dwarves’ strange tongue. Most of them, including Dwalin, disappeared into the mountain, leaving only Ori and Dori upon the terrace above.

“Bilbo,” Dori said, tugging upon one of the many ornate braids within his his knee-long gray beard. 

“Buttercup,” she told them, her eyes inexplicably welling with tears. Her throat burned. She didn’t want to see more death. She didn’t want to be separated from her dwarves. By the Shire, if she had to face the Battle of Five Armies again, she wanted it to be at their side.

An outcome, she sadly concluded, not fated to be. 

“You can’t stay down there. Go. Back to Dale,” Dori urged. Ori bobbed his head in anxious agreement.

“I can’t,” she told them in a voice that broke. “I have to protect Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli, Dori. I can’t let them die again.”

“Again?” Ori’s eyes rounded. “Bilb—Buttercup,” he hastily corrected, finger pointing. “Your sword! Look at your sword!”

She drew Sting, her heart dropping at the blue glow emanating from the blade. _No,_ a part of her moaned with fear and a bone-tired resignation. She craned her head and managed a watery smile for her two friends. “I’ll try to protect Dain.”

“No,” Dori cried. “Hide.”

“I can’t do that,” she told him. “I love you both.” With that, she donned the ring, and the world around her bleached of color. 

The tromping thunder of approaching boar hooves destroyed what remained of the morning’s stillness. Her focus returned to her sword. For it to be glowing as it was, the orcs were nearer sooner than she’d thought. _They must have waited for Dain to be in position before striking._ Why, she’d likely never know. Perhaps because it kept them from having to split their forces on another front. Perhaps to wait for the bats that would block out the sun’s rays.

But the sword did not lie. It told a new story. 

The orcs arrived first. Something she’d have to remember to tell Gandalf if things once again repeated themselves.

OoOoOo

Thorin did not permit Erebor’s gates to be unsealed. He did not drop a rope to haul his kinsmen and subjects out of harm’s way or permit them to make their stand upon Erebor’s ramparts. Driven all the madder by the Arkenstone—a fact Buttercup learned secondhand from overhearing a distraught Balin conveyed his king’s commands to Dain—Thorin determined to sacrifice every dwarf he had in order to protect the Shire-sized mound of gold within the mountain.

Her dwarves barricaded the terrace entrance above, shutting themselves inside. 

She twisted the ring round and round her finger. This, she thought, would not end well. Not for Dain. Not for his brave, blustering dwarf warriors who took up position in a hurry as the sky filled with bats and the rumble of many, many more shod feet destroyed the quiet. 

The force from Gundabad marched into view like a swarm of insects flowing over a hill. As each time before, she gulped at seeing their enormous numbers. 

_What are you doing here, Buttercup? You are just a hobbit. This is no place for hobbits!_

It seemed to take forever for the leading edge of goblins and orcs astride wargs along with their wolf allies to reach Dain’s front lines, yet at the same time, it was but the blink of the eye. One minute, she was nervously drying her sweat-dampened palms upon her trousers, her heartbeat pounding in her ears with a frenetic tempo. The next, a wolf leaped over the first line of dwarves to tackle a dwarf bare feet from her position. 

The dwarf, a swarthy fellow with craggy features, slammed his battle mattock into the snarling animal, sending it hurling through the air…right at her. Buttercup dropped to the ground, the wind of the wolf’s passage ruffling her hair. The wolf skated across the ground for yards before coming to a halt by another dwarf warrior. 

The warrior kicked back with his iron-shod heel, but he had no attention to spare to do more. To Buttercup’s shock, the animal struggled to rise. 

She firmed her grip on Sting and raced to it. Before it gained its feet, she jammed her sword straight down into its chest, putting it out of its misery and removing it as a threat.

A horn sounded, one discordant and familiar. _Azog._ His fighters raced in from the south, bringing with them the trolls and their catapults. Most charged towards Erebor, but she saw a handful break off from the main force to march on Dale along with a host of goblins.

What happened to Dale next, she lost track of. With the enemy reinforcements rocking the dwarf lines, all condensed into slice and hack and dodge and duck, over and over again. Sweat mixed with black and ring-grayed red blood, turning the ground underfoot slick until Buttercup knew she left footprints any with time and attention could see.

Time and attention, thankfully, were in short supply for both defenders and invaders. Sting never stilled. Though her arms tired, it flew left to disrupt a strike that would have slain the dwarf there, and then right to stab a goblin in the back. Time and again, she was slammed off her feet, tripped or nearly impaled. A dwarf’s shield cracked into her chest and send her flying. Thereafter, every breath was laborious and pained. 

Dain’s soldiers fell. Steadily. Bravely. None of them attempted to retreat. None cowered. Despite the odds, they availed themselves like heroes in the oldest of tales. 

Buttercup’s sight blurred for tears. Where was Thorin? How could he not…?

_He’s sick._ That was the end of it. Her love was so very, very sick. The Thorin she knew, she thought as she slid next to a young dwarf sharing Fíli’s nimble ability to wield dual weapons, would not stay _in there_ while his people died _out here._ No, a hale Thorin would take up arms and charge into the thickest part of the battle, cursing the odds all the while.

It was one reason she ached with love for him. Thorin was rude, opinionated, and insulting. But he was also one of the most selfless souls she had ever encountered. Time and again, he’d put his body in harm’s way to protect another. Even a halfling lass who had no business in the wilds. 

Buttercup whacked aside a goblin’s spear—he aimed to skewer the Fíli-like dwarf she protected—and a filament of amusement touched her at the goblin’s dumbfounded expression when _nothing_ had somehow turned to _something_ and ruined his strike. 

Amusement or not, she didn’t pause. Sting drove through the creature’s chest before it had a chance to think much about the anomaly.   
Buttercup yanked her blade free, turning to find the dwarf sweeping the area with an intent inspection.

“Watch,” she called as another foe rose up on his left. 

Without a blink, he whirled, mattock lifting just in time to save his neck. He lost his shield, and it flopped to his side, out of immediate reach. An orc’s spear broke between the lines before him, driving into his throat, and she whimpered as the soul-light in his eyes went out, leaving sharp, determined eyes glassy.

And so it went. The Iron Hills dwarves were whittled away like a knot of wood in Bifur’s hands. No matter how hard she tried to aid them, they fell. Dain. Others that she’d never even had the chance to meet, much less learn their names so that she might keep them in her heart where they’d be locked away. Remembered.

A pike rammed into her chest, snapping bones in her torso audibly and propelling her backwards until she was pinned within the cracks of the rubble blocking the mountain’s entrance. The gray-skinned goblin reclaimed its weapon with a wrench, but after a short, hard-eyed inspection of her location—and a disconcerting sniff of its beak-like nose—he turned away.

Leaving her to sag in the rubble, unable to breathe. Her chest flamed with agony. With one hand, she patted her chest, then snorted inside to find the mithril shirt Thorin had gifted her with yet intact. 

_Just because it cannot be easily pierced does not mean it makes you impervious to injury, Buttercup Baggins,_ a small and hysterical inner voice offered. 

Duly noted. She’d be sure to keep that in mind should she relive this again tomorrow. 

Darkness crept over the edges of her sight. _No._ Despite the gloom taking her, she saw the gleeful orcs and goblins forming lines to pull the barricade blocking Erebor’s gates apart stone by stone. Each obstacle was lifted and handed back among their ranks like a bucket brigade. They were going to penetrate Erebor. 

_They’ll kill them,_ a part of her shrieked. _Do something!_

Like what, she wished to ask that pesky voice. Bribe the orcs with fine cooking if they’d only pretty-please leave her dwarves alone? She chuckled, the taste of blood in her mouth, to imagine it. Yes, that was a fine idea. She could see Azog smiling as she served him tea with her good tea set and passed out the scones and clotted cream to his fellows. 

A bright, silvery horn pierced the dull roar filling Buttercup’s ears. Choking and gasping, she managed to tilt her head. The elves’ golden armor came into view within the rear of the orcs’ ranks. 

_Always too late,_ she grumbled. Weren’t elves supposed to be the wisest? She was really going to have to rethink that belief when— _if_ —she woke in that bush again. 

A large gap appeared in Erebor’s gates, one through which arrows suddenly whizzed. _Kíli._ One orc fell with a bestial cry and an arrow protruding from his throat. Then another from a shaft to the eye. The third felled the big-nosed goblin who’d struck her.

Whether Buttercup blacked out or truly died, she never would know. Either way, she drifted off with a smirk on her lips. _Take that,_ she mentally cheered. 

Should she live again, she intended to kiss that dwarf in gratitude.


	5. Still Alive

Buttercup fell into the bushes. Hooves clopped away.

Exquisite relief tingled through her extremities and translated into a nervous giggle. She lived. Her dwarves lived! Glee filled her. By Yavanna, it was a grand morning. 

There was insufficient room for a jig—even a seated one—so she contented herself with a hip shake and sway of the arms. Perhaps the Valar were giving her allowance to fix her dwarves’ fates with this time-repeating nonsense. 

Since it meant they all lived again, she decided to stop carping about it. If time was bent upon snarling itself into knots, she’d be a fool not to take advantage of it, and Bagginses were rarely fools.

Her Took-side, however… She snickered again, and felt the tension of too much horribleness slide from her shoulders. Well, her Took-side was ever a source of trouble. And fun.

Tapping a fingernail against her teeth, she debated her course for the day. Instead of rushing off in a panic, she needed to act with intention. _So. What have we learned, Buttercup Baggins. Hmm?_

Wiggling her toes and stretching as much as the bush permitted, she mulled that over. _Don’t give Thorin the Arkenstone,_ she decided, her nose scrunching. _That_ had been a colossal mistake, one she wouldn’t be repeating. Balin had been right to warn her about that. Why, Thorin had never emerged from the mountain this time, proof he’d been left in worse straits than she’d found him.

Galling for someone who took pride in returning things in the same condition she received them.

Her forehead crinkled. She definitely needed to be more succinct with Gandalf this time. Letting the orcs and goblins claim the Lonely Mountain? Huge mistake. Her dwarves had been killed—she grimaced, knowing it her own fault—and if time had not deigned to reverse itself, she suspected it would have equaled disaster for the men of Lake-town. 

_There must be another way._ Some change to the defenders’ strategy. _You won’t conjure an answer by laying here._

True enough. Where was—? 

“May I be of assistance?”

_Right on time._ Tilting her head to one side brought the masked man into view. She beamed up at him. “Good morning, Westley.” 

His lips curled, and his chin dipped to one side. “Do we know one other?”

“Yes and no,” she said. “Buttercup Baggins of the Shire, at your service. And yes,” she added at the minute flare of his eyes, “I’ve been disguised as a male.” She plucked her tunic in demonstration. “Hence the clothing.” A grimace. A sheepish ruffling of the hair. “And the butchered hair.”

His grin grew, a grin that invited all to join in his merriment. “I see. The need must have been dire to prompt the destruction of such beautiful curls as you possess.” Leaning forward at the waist, one hand tucked around his middle with the other upon his chin, he said, “There is a shortage of perfect hair in the world. A shame to ruin yours.”

She debated grabbing him into a bone-cracking hug for that. After Thorin’s scathing denial of her gender, it was a balm to her feminine soul. 

Hands dropping to his sides, he asked, “May I assist you from your couch, my lady? As comfortable as it undoubtedly is, frittering the day in bed does us no good.”

She grinned all the wider. Mad or not, she was coming to truly like this man. She lifted her arms in invitation. “I would be ever so thankful.”

“Just how did you wind up in that bush?” he asked as he set her on her feet. 

Rubbing her nose with one hand, she pointed to what had been her perch upon Dale’s wall. “Fell asleep in search of solitude. Woke up falling.”

He clucked his tongue, eyes dancing. “There must be better places to sleep.”

“If I ever get the chance, I’ll be sure to seek one out,” she said in a dry voice. Then after patting his arm, she darted off, hand waving wildly behind her. “Thank you again, Westley! See you tomorrow!”

OoOoOo

This time, she pulled Gandalf aside, not willing to risk him rushing off before he’d heard _all_ of the tale, not merely the (admittedly rather large) tidbit about orc armies arriving on their doorstep in a matter of hours. They stood in a crumbling stone alcove that emptied into another of Dale’s handful of stone courtyards. This one, like its fellow holding court beneath the Lord’s Hall, contained an old, waterless fountain, but where the one before the Lord’s Hall had stonework at the center that portrayed children dancing in a circle—one could assume the water could spurt out from their midst by the children’s delight—this one had a single man keeping solemn vigil, his hands cupped near his chest.

“Are you certain that—?” Gandalf began, his gaze leaving the crowded courtyard to descend to her.

“No, it wasn’t a dream.” She nodded to show how serious she was.

“Perhaps a vision,” he muttered, fingers tapping about the shaft of his staff. 

“Not unless visions are so precise as to allow you to experience being decapitated quite graphically,” she said, her fingers doing some tapping of their own upon Sting’s hilt. “Barring that, I really cannot agree.”

“Inconceivable,” he muttered. Then sharply, “Decapitated?” That fast, an intent stare was beaming down at her. And truly, intent from a wizard was vastly more unnerving than anything dwarves, elves, or hobbits could manage. She shifted on her feet feeling like a painting under his looking glass, as if every flaw or wayward thought was bared to his scrutiny.

_Very_ unsettling. Thorin, she decided once and for all, was an amateur. Oh, he did intimidating quite well, but he still was not of Gandalf’s caliber. 

Thankfully.

Blessedly. 

An irreverent thought: if Thorin _was_ half so observant as Gandalf, her ruse would never have lasted beyond the Shire’s boundaries. _Or if he wasn’t half so focused on Erebor._ That, she granted, was probably more accurate. Thorin had been driven, distracted by thoughts of his home. 

_You just don’t want to admit that you weren’t pretty enough to merit a second glance,_ an inner voice said tartly. _Besides, a hobbit? And a king?_ That part of herself burst into hysterical laughter.

_Oh, do shut up._ Sometimes, her Took self hated that Baggins logic.

She gratefully returned to Gandalf’s question. “One could wish in his madness, Thorin hadn’t been so diligent in sharpening his ax,” she said dryly. “It lobbed my head clean off as he fell from Azog’s last strike. I told you that.” Then with a (wonderfully intact) head tilt, “Do you suppose my head became visible when it was separated from my body?” 

Gandalf choked on nothing, eyes wide.

Buttercup shrugged. It _was_ an interesting question. And how utterly gruesome! For a second, she harbored the picture of a dying Thorin realizing her gender and moved to grief and regret at her demise. It was ruined as imaginary-Thorin snorted and instructed her head that he’d _warned_ her the wilds were no place for gentlefolk. With a grumble of irritation, he lectured, “I told you I would not be held responsible for your fate.”

Gah! Even in her waking dreams, the dwarf had the ability to rile her past respectability. All the while looking kingly. Noble and handsome and…and… _Thorin._ Unfair, she labeled it. 

A low, annoyed sound emerged from Gandalf’s throat. “If this is some Took trick, Buttercup Baggins,” he threatened while looking down his patrician nose, “I shall turn you into a frog.”

“It’s not a trick,” she sputtered indignantly, her chin thrusting out. “How could you believe I’d ever dream up something so vile?” Then a pause. She eyed him uncertainly. “Can you really do that? Because if you can turn people into toads…”

“Frogs,” he corrected with a put-upon sigh.

“…then I want to know why you didn’t just zap the orcs back in the Misty Mountains.” She stared up at him expectantly, arms folded across her chest.

He muttered under his breath, by which she assumed the answer was no. _Exaggerating,_ she sniffed. _It figures._ The ability to transform an army of orcs into amphibians would be quite handy, she imagined. _Not to mention funnier than the time I spiked Lobelia’s spiced drink with rum._ The stuffy hobbit had been so sauced afterward that she’d danced upon the tables at the Party Tree for hours. Badly.

Buttercup’s lips twitched upwards. Gandalf’s, conversely, dipped downward. His grip tightened about his staff as his attention drifted towards Erebor. 

His jaw hardened at what crossed his mind, and if he’d been Smaug, she suspected smoke would be issuing forth from his nostrils. Then, his head turned until the wizard’s eyes pinned her where she stood. “You say you gave the Arkenstone back to Thorin.”

“A regrettable miscalculation,” she said.

He snorted, then without a how-do-you-do, he left the alcove and stepped into the courtyard. A pivot to the left, and he stalked towards the street that would lead to the Lord’s Hall. “I don’t doubt that in the least.”

She trotted after him. “What do we do, Gandalf?”

His gaze flicked down at her before once more facing forward, his face chiseled into hard and tired lines. “We must alert our allies. You are correct. We cannot afford for Erebor to become a bastion for the enemy.”

“I’m sorry.”

He halted. His face softened as he looked down at her. “What is it you are apologizing for?”

“To be frank, I’m not entirely sure,” she said. “For being the bearer of bad news. For remembering this when everyone else is in blissful ignorance. All of it and nothing, I suppose, but I’m still sorry.”

A brief smile bloomed and withered on his face. “My dear friend.” One wizened hand settled on the crown of her head. “I will handle things from here. I have a harder task for you.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Thorin?”

This time, his smile acquired richer life. “Thorin.” Then more soberly, “This is no easy task I leave to you, but if we are to change things, we need the Company’s aid. With or without their king.” 

“Thorin fought free from the madness before,” she said firmly. “He can do it again.” She had faith in that temperamental dwarf. 

“So be it.” 

Before he could leave, she asked, “Gandalf? What could cause this? Have you any ideas?”

He leaned against his staff, his face pinched. “That,” he said lowly, “I have no answer for. Even the elves’ long history has never documented such an occurrence. Believe that I will do what I can to discover the source.”

“But Gandalf,” she said after his retreating back. “You won’t remember this tomorrow.”

She got no response. Buttercup stamped one foot and chewed upon her thumbnail. 

Then she growled. Elves and dragons, she was wasting time. She’d been given a duty. Wake Thorin. Shock him from his gold-sickness. 

This, she thought, was not going to be easy. After one uncertain and defensive rub of her neck, she hustled out of Dale— _after_ first slinking off to do away with her breast bands. If she had to keep dying, she’d do it as comfortably as she could, thank you very much.

OoOoOo

Buttercup reached the base of the Lonely Mountain just as Nori was leaning over the banister, frowning across the distance at the elves and men mustering within Dale. _On watch,_ she deduced. Before he could call the others, she removed her ring and _psst_ at him.

“Bilbo, what are you—?”

“No time. Get me a rope, Nori. Hurry!” She pranced in place, eyes darting over her shoulder. She thought she still had maybe fifteen to twenty-five minutes before Dain arrived, but in all the chaos, it wasn’t as if she’d managed to time it. 

_Next item on the list of things to remember, Buttercup: get a pocket watch._ She didn’t care how. She couldn’t change things if she didn’t know all the variables. 

Nori leaned on the railing with straight arms, his eyebrows low. “You got a death wish, Bilbo?”

“No, Nori, I don’t,” she said sharply. “I have a mission from Gandalf to _try_ to save Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli. The rest of you, too, I suppose, since the last time, Erebor ended up overrun with orcs. We have _maybe_ ten minutes to shock Thorin out of his gold-sickness, and every minute I must waste convincing you of what is about to come is a minute we cannot get back. Lower a rope.” Then with a smile. “Please?”

The dwarf cocked one eyebrow with head canted to one side. 

“Nori.”

“Bilbo.”

Slitted eyes met slitted eyes.

The dwarf snorted. “You think I don’t remember you trying your best to protect Ori outside o’ the elf valley? I’m not repaying you by hauling you up here so that Thorin can kill us both,” Nori said.

It was then he stiffened. “Your sword is glowing.”

“Already?” she gasped, unsheathing an inch to prove the veracity of his claim. 

“What do you mean, already?” he demanded.

“Azog and Bolg lead two armies this way,” she rushed. “They’ll strike when Dain is in position. _Please,_ Nori, we’re running out of time!”

OoOoOo

So it was she found herself racing down Erebor’s towering hallways—the dratted things made her feel all the smaller and _slower_ —with Nori on one side and Dwalin, Kíli and Fíli behind. Nori had waved them all to silence, and they listened intently as she babbled breathlessly about the events she’d lived.

Until she slipped and mentioned her gender. Nori adopted that same wicked grin, so she pointed a scolding finger at him.

“No,” she told him. “We’ve had this conversation before. Yes, I stuffed my shorts. No, I never had some dread hobbit disease.” Then eyes narrowing more at the glint in his eye, “No, I’m not removing clothing to prove my gender to you.”

Dwalin’s meaty hand latched onto her wrist, halting their progress. “Stop right there,” he growled. “I’m not sending a lass to her death.”

She waved her free hand in the air. “I’m the only one you can send. The rest of you are too in awe of your king to do more than buzz about like nagging flies, chattering away at him.” A pause. “No offense.”

“Just what do you intend to do?” Kíli asked with the beginnings of a smile on his face. “I seem to recall ‘chattering away’ as being your favorite weapon.”

Fíli nodded in staunch and wry agreement.

_Bother._ She supposed that was, unfortunately, true.

OoOoOo

When they reached the treasury, the five of them slowed. Buttercup dearly wished in that moment that she hadn’t shared the existence of her ring with the dwarves. Perhaps haunting Thorin and whispering like a ghost would have done the trick.

That, alas, was not an option. 

She rolled the ring between two fingers, not yet placing it on her finger. “You four wait here.”

“This is a rotten idea,” Dwalin grumbled. 

Buttercup patted him on the chest. “I’ll be extra careful.”

“Like you were with Smaug?” he asked, unimpressed.

She frowned up at him good. Then with a deep breath, she donned the ring and peeked into the vast chamber. Where once she’d felt wonder at the sheer magnitude of the arching walls and glowing stones that bathed the chamber with a light as golden as the hills of coins and gems that had buried the treasury floor, now she surveyed the space with heaviness. Such a waste, it represented. This…this…foolish collection of mathoms had lured Smaug down from the north, resulting in so much loss of life. 

And now, it threatened its king’s sanity. 

Placing one foot gingerly before the other, she entered the treasury and left the dwarves behind. It took longer than she was happy with to cross the unstable coin sea to where Thorin sorted through the treasury’s bounty upon a sizable bean-shaped hill of the stuff. He murmured to himself as he picked up necklaces, rings, and polished gemstones. Some found their way onto his person. Others were dropped as a new shiny mathom caught his attention.

He looked…tired, she thought. Plagued but utterly entranced. 

_How,_ she asked herself, _do you plan to shock him free, Buttercup Baggins?_

An idea. A spark of absurdity, one fueled by one too many biting comments from the dwarf during their journey. The Tookish side of her sprang into action before the saner Baggins part had a chance to object. 

Thorin’s head jerked up at the merry sound of coins tinkling against one another beneath her invisibly running feet. She scrambled up the hill, cursing under her breath that the dwarf had to play King of the Hill even whilst already being King under the Mountain. He just had to take the highest vantage point, didn’t he?

Thorin frowned, one hand to his chin, and his eyes narrowed. Then he jerked, and his hand wrapped around the hilt of a familiar and humongous ax. _Not the ax,_ a part of her whined. Why, oh why, did it have to be the bloody ax again? 

_Too late,_ she sang nervously. She had him now. 

Buttercup tackled him. 

Or rather, she tried to. Instead, she found herself splatted against the dwarf’s back like a hobbit-leech, arms and legs around his torso and hips. _Um._ She could feel the muscles beneath her tensing for a mighty eruption, so she did the only other thing she could think to try in the spur of the moment. 

She kissed his cheek noisily. ( _She,_ she crowed inside, got to kiss _Thorin._ All in duty, of course.) Then in a sunny voice, she said, “Hello, sweetheart. Did you miss me?”

A peek over her shoulder showed miniature Dwalin and Nori with jaws dangling. Fíli and Kíli weren’t much better. What they read from Thorin given the distance between them, she’d never know, but she sure heard their unanimous bellows, “No!”

One second the dwarf she hugged from behind was rigid as a statue, the next she was flying through the air. She crashed down in a wave of treasure, landing on the far side of the coin-hill with an inelegant _oomph._

Thorin charged after, that blasted ax hefted above his shoulder.

Buttercup squeaked and rolled away, pursued by a very wroth and insane Thorin. 

“So, thief, you return to steal from me?” He slowed, stalking after her like a thundercloud of doom, dark and vengeful. 

“Azog, Thorin. Azog!” she babbled. She gained her knees, then threw herself to her left as the ax from Morgoth’s pit smashed down where she’d been a heartbeat before. 

“You conspire with my enemies?”

_Seriously?_ Her eyes flicked ceiling-ward as she rose to her feet and sidled to the right, one bare foot crossing the other. She silently berated the other dwarves for taking too dratted long to arrive. What were they doing? Stopping to plant petunias?

Ah. She’d spoken too soon. _There they are._ Footsteps pounded around the hill of coins and gems towards her, each accompanied by jingling. _Petunias must be planted._ Her lips quirked shakily. 

Thorin prowled after her, his eyes upon the carpet of golden jewelry and coins she disturbed with each carefully placed foot. That accursed ax was hefted to hip-level at Thorin’s side.

“Conspiring with your enemies?” she said nervously, wiping sweaty palms upon her trousers. “Are you mad?” _Wince._ Not the wisest choice of words. _Eh, too late._ “Azog and me? Riiight. We’re star-crossed lovers, didn’t you know? ‘Course there is that nasty habit of his of _eating_ other peoples, but what’s a little nip or two among lovers? And our differences in size _might_ make for a tricky conjugal bed if we ever tie the knot. But, hey, I’m a Took. A Took never runs from a challenge.”

A stifled guffaw, a tripped step that disrupted the almost musical pattern of clinking coins. _Nori,_ she determined by sound alone. 

She dropped all sarcasm. _“Of course_ I’m not conspiring with him, you dolt! Have you forgotten that I shielded your ungrateful and—let’s face it—utterly _rash_ hide from him in the Misty Mountains? Me, who hasn’t even had a day’s training with my sword? Do you have any idea of how unbelievably terrifying that was, Thorin? I thought I was going to die. And worse, I thought I was going to fail you!”

“That’s worse than death?” she thought she heard Nori puff in a voice laced with amusement.

“Oh, do be quiet, Nori.” She raked one hand through her short curls. Elves and dragons, the stubborn dwarf king wasn’t listening to her. Must he do everything the hard way? 

“Lies,” Thorin rumbled. 

_That’s a yes._

Kíli arrived. _Hoo-wee and pass the pie!_ The dark-haired dwarf skidded to a halt before Buttercup in a spray of treasure, his arms outstretched. “Uncle, stop.”

“Kíli, get out of my way,” Thorin growled. The ax didn’t so much as dip. 

Fíli appeared, bumping into his brother’s shoulder. He, too, received Thorin’s infamous Glare of Imminent Doom. 

“You betray me?” Thorin’s brow creased. Pain sparked within his eyes, a look of such wounding that Buttercup was tempted to rush forward and hug the dwarf. 

But then her eyes landed on that ax, and the inclination died a bloody death. She knew how _that_ would end. 

“Two armies are on their way here, Thorin,” Dwalin said, joining them at a more cautious pace.

Where was Nor—? An arm wrapped around her waist, and Buttercup squeaked. Nori tightened his grip in silent warning. She subsided and leaned into him. It felt so blessedly _good_ to be with her dwarves again after all the horror of the last few days. 

And good that they knew her for a female now. She could hug them silly and not destroy her masculine image. A girl was allowed to be mushy. 

“What did you say?” Thorin’s eyes blazed like blue fire as they speared his friend. 

“That’s why she’s here,” Dwalin said, his muscular and tattooed arms folding before his chest. 

“She?”

“It’s what I was trying to tell you, Uncle,” Kíli said. “Bilbo stayed back in the Shire. We never met him. All this time, we’ve had his sister, Buttercup, with us.”

Thorin’s chin dipped dangerous inches. Narrowed eyes swept towards her, and though she knew herself invisible, there was no way to hide the way Nori had his arms around something. She wondered if she should start running.

Thorin’s upper lip peeled back. ( _Here we go again,_ she sighed.) “A lie. A bid for—”

“Surely when you hugged her on the Carrock, you noticed,” Fíli burst in with a note of desperation, derailing his uncle’s denouncement. “Wouldn’t it be…” The blond coughed. “…obvious?”

“It’s obvious,” Nori said, jiggling her at the waist. 

Buttercup groan in humiliation. “Nori,” she whined. 

“What? A dwarf’s not allowed to state a fact?”

She gave up and dropped her head back on Nori’s chest. This was not working. Not, not, not. “This isn’t good,” she muttered.

“How’s that?” Nori’s chest rumbled beneath her head. 

“We are wasting time,” she half-wailed, twisting to grab fistfuls of his tunic and haul him down to her level. It only worked because Nori let it. “By now, Dain must have arrived. That means Azog and Bolg are both closing in on the mountain, and we are no closer to fixing Thorin than I was the last three times. Four times? Anyway, we need Thorin _sane.”_

By the end, she was shaking the dwarf—feebly, she’d concede, but feeble or not, it counted. 

“You said he led us into battle that first time? Near the end of the battle?” Fíli asked, twisting about to stare at the air in front of Nori’s chest. 

She yanked off the ring, and both Durin brothers smiled. Thorin growled. “Yes,” she answered.

She ignored Thorin as, it seemed, everyone else just decided to do. Well, everyone but Dwalin. The big warrior kept a close watch on his liege and friend with fingers of one hand twitching as if anticipating the need to grab a weapon. 

“What brought Uncle out of the sickness the first time?” Kíli asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, sagging back against Nori. “How could I know? I was _exiled,_ remember?”

“I’m still not sure I believe this,” Dwalin muttered.

“Believe what?” Thorin demanded. 

Yep, they were ignoring him, and Buttercup almost giggled at how little Thorin cared for that. 

“It doesn’t matter, Dwalin,” Buttercup said. Ticking off fingers on one hand, she said, “Dain arrives with about three hundred warriors from the Iron Hills. Originally, he trades slurs with the Elvenking—the ‘fairy of the forest’, I believe he calls him—and tells the men and elves to leave. That’s when Bolg arrives with his army from the north. Azog arrives shortly after leading one from Dol Guldur in southern Mirkwood. I found out later that Bolg arrived earlier than I’d thought, but he hid his presence until Dain was sandwiched between the two armies like a bit of mutton.” (Her tummy rumbled at the unkind reminder. She’d had nothing to eat in _days.)_

Buttercup plowed on. “The battle rages through the day with bats blocking the sun. There will be trolls with catapults, wargs, wolves, and goblins. People die. A _lot_ of people die.”

Her eyes drifted helplessly to Thorin, and she shrugged loose of Nori, pushed gently between the Durin brothers, to stand before her king. Distrust swirled in eyes that had once viewed her with fondness. With a sigh, she lifted empty hands, flashing palms to assure him they were just that, before dusting off his stained and wrinkled clothing.

Buttercup theorized that the only reason he didn’t chop her to bits on the spot was consternation that any would handle his person so familiarly without his leave. 

“You died,” she told the galoot, keeping her gaze on the clothing instead of risking the death-glare undoubtedly attempting to sear layers of her skin from above. “Perhaps I am mad.” She attempted a grin. “Do you suppose it’s contagious? We could sneeze on the others, ensure we’re all mad as loons, and that would end our troubles. Azog will still kill us, but surely if we’re mad enough, we won’t really mind, right?”

The chest beneath her hands—Yavanna, but she experienced a forbidden thrill at its broad, muscled expanse—quaked with an irritable sound. That was preferable to fury, so she counted it a win and tiptoed deeper into the topic. And continued to pat at the chest she so admired.

“I cannot explain what I have experienced. Gandalf said he’s heard nothing like it.” She pursed her lips for a moment. “I wonder if your libraries here might have something? Ask Ori,” she decided with a short nod. “You guys are so secretive about everything else, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover you have all kinds of knowledge hidden away in here. I’ll have to grab him first next time we end up here.”

“Eh, Bilb—Buttercup? Didn’t you say time was pressing?” Nori asked, his voice rich with humor.

“So I did,” she agreed. A small frown, and her eyes dared to inch up to Thorin’s neck, then they darted back down. That neck looked tight. Tight wasn’t good. Tight meant angry. 

Instead of stamping the foot just itching—yes, _itching_ —to give voice to her frustration, she barreled onward. “This is the fourth time I’ve lived this day, Thorin. The first time, you shucked all this gold…” She hefted a handful of the golden strands danging around his neck. “…donned the simpler furs and armor you’d worn during the journey here, and led the Company into battle. There was no stopping you from pursuing Azog.”

An aside: “Made quite the bold and dashing figure, too.” She wriggled with remembered appreciation, then heaved a sigh when the distinctive sound of choking came from behind her. Kíli, she thought.

“I’m a hobbit with no prospects,” she said with an eye roll. “That doesn’t make me dead or blind. Your uncle cuts a very dashing figure.” Then glancing back at the boys, “All three of you do. Is there some law that says Durins must be uncannily handsome? Because from a female perspective it is Not Fair.”

Both princes smirked, all but preening where they stood. “We’re handsome?” Kíli asked.

“Oh, shush, you. As if you didn’t know it. Now where were we?”

“You were admiring the king’s chest,” Nori drawled.

Heat stole into her cheeks and ears— _again._ She pressed on, hoping that observation would be forgotten. “Oh yes. You fought,” she said, returning to her recount. The instant her mind returned to the events of that day, ragged emotions ripped at her composure, threatening to reduce her to blubbery tears. _I don’t like Thorin dead,_ that little-girl feeling said. Her hands stilled, clutching his jerkin and ruining all her previous efforts. “He managed a lucky hit, and you fell. You _fell,_ Thorin.” 

“Where was I?” Dwalin demanded.

“You got separated,” she said with a sorrowful look at the bald dwarf. 

Then grief sucker-punched her good. A flood of tears burst like a river escaping a failing dam, rushing down her cheeks. So fresh, that agony of loss. She hadn’t had time to absorb it or confront it in all the events that had followed. _This isn’t the time,_ a part of her railed. With one hand, she held back the accompanying sob. (Bad sob! Bad! She needed to be strong and appear _sane,_ drat it!)

Her face mutinied and crumpled. _(So much for sane.)_ “I didn’t see it. I’d been knocked senseless by a stone to the head while up near Ravenhill with the elves. I learned Fíli and Kíli tried to defend you as you lay there bleeding.” 

The chest beneath her hands rose with a huge, shuddering inhale. Rage? Or grief?

Her temper chose that inopportune moment to flare. She jerked on his shirt, watery eyes boring up into his. “Will you snap out of it, already? We need you, Thorin!”

Something flickered within those intensely blue eyes. She caught the barest glimpse, then he pushed past her—not brutishly—and slogged towards the treasury exit.


	6. Leading the Charge

A stomping Thorin pounded down the arching hallway that led towards Erebor’s large balcony, his feet like sledgehammers and his face newly chiseled granite, all sharp angles and forbidding lines. ( _And yet still handsome, confound the dwarf._ Why she thought the brooding male so…so… _appealing,_ she’d never know.) 

If she’d but exerted herself, Buttercup could have molded herself into a respectable miss sure to attract a nice, gentle hobbit lad. Someone safe. Supportive. Secure. Her feet acquired a definite heaviness of their own, and she glowered at the stone floor beneath her. 

_Safe? Secure? Sounds boooring,_ her Tookish soul decried. Her lips twisted. It had a point. The most exciting male in Hobbiton had been her brother. A deflating truth.

With eyes boring holes into the back of Thorin’s head, Buttercup attempted to pin-point what it was that so enthralled her about the dwarf (what _really_ mesmerized her, she scolded her rambunctious Took side) while she hid—no, no, not _hid,_ she corrected the erroneous label. _Strategically positioned_ herself to remain out of the temperamental dwarf king’s notice. 

_Can’t be looks,_ she concluded, wishing for one lousy rock to kick. Just her luck, the rubble within Erebor was perilously over-sized for such activities. 

If her heart was so fickle to fawn over an (admittedly devastatingly masculine) face, Kíli and Fíli were as handsome as their uncle. Plus, neither prince was prone to rude remarks, scathing snap judgments or a condescending attitude that summed up Thorin at his worst.

So why, oh why, had her foolish, Tookish heart set itself on the most _impossible_ male to ever stomp across Middle Earth? What did that say about her, to set her cap upon one so unattainable? 

_You are a dolt, Buttercup Baggins. An utter nincompoop._

The Company trailed after their king in silence. A number darted incredulous glances her way—they’d been doing that since Fíli had blabbed the gist of her tale while the dwarves had assembled. Gloin and Dori had gone so far as to ask if she was _sure,_ as if her gender had escaped her all these years. (She’d sniffed at that one.) 

But the looks dried up fast when the balcony doors opened and the thunder of battle blasted them. From that point, her gender was moot. Every dwarf turned grim and alert. 

A wind blew through their midst in chilly bursts, fluttering tunics and whipping cloaks away from their bodies. Bats wheeled overhead in a gigantic black swarm, flocking one way, then the other. Chaos reigned upon the plains below—bloody and noisy—and the carnage that was the Battle of Five Armies was in full swing. 

“You fought in this?” Bofur asked with wide eyes.

She nodded jerkily, nerves stretched tight enough to squeal like Dwalin’s viol. Trying to snatch a bit of levity, she mock-scowled. “You don’t need to sound so surprised.”

“Surprised? He should be stunned senseless,” Dwalin said. Hard eyes turned her way, giving her a look she could not read before returning to the battle taking place right beneath them. 

“Did you survive it?” Fíli asked tightly, his young face pale as he glanced at his brother. Kíli looked terrified but kept shooting looks at his uncle in search of (she assumed) direction and reassurance.

Thorin was in no condition to provide either. The King under the Mountain paced, mumbling incomprehensibly to himself. Furious. Suspicious. His head twitched, responding to some inner stimulus only he could hear. The longer he surveyed the scene, the more agitated he became until everyone gave him a wide berth. 

Even poor Kíli, whose crestfallen disappointment morphed into anger. _Ah, Kíli, no._ It wasn’t Thorin’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s. 

_So what are you going to do about it?_

She knew better than to listen to that voice. It always meant trouble. 

But her accursed Baggins sense of duty landed on her shoulders with all the weight of Thorin’s outrageously heavy coat anyway. _Why_ was it up to her, one might ask. Because no one else, a part of her fumed, remembered a lick of what had gone before! (For the record, she wanted to know _what_ the Valar had been thinking to choose one hobbit to bestow this “blessing” upon. _Grr.)_

Assuming it was the Valar or Eru. For all she knew, one of Gandalf’s wizard buddies had sneezed this into existence. (Although in retrospect, that was unlikely. If Gandalf couldn’t turn orcs into toads, what were the chances Radagast or the other fellow—what had Gandalf named him?—could do this?)

 _Botheration._ It was up to her to try something. Gandalf had changed things from his end. She must do likewise. (She touched her neck with a silent little whimper. Confound it, she _liked_ having an intact neck.)

Buttercup crept among the Company unnoticed—they had other worries at the moment than one hobbit—until she reached Nori’s side. Leaning against him, she murmured, “Did you mean it?”

Both of his braided eyebrows (one day she wanted to know how he managed that) lifted. Question enough. 

“That you owe me for Ori,” she clarified, her hands rubbing back and forward on the stone banister…until one snuck away to again touch her neck. 

Those eyebrows twitched with suspicion. “Aye.” So cautiously, he said the word, as if waiting for the ax to drop—an expression she determined to strike from her vocabulary forthwith as her neck all but shrieked in terror. ( _How could you make light of it,_ it sniffled. Her hand crept up to give it another pat.)

Buttercup leaned nearer to Nori, and he obliged by bending down a bit to narrow the distance between them. “Protect them,” she said. “If you can. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli. Please?”

Shrewd eyes pinned her in place. “What is going on in that curly head of yours, pipsqueak?”

Pipsqueak? She shook her head and focused on her Plan. (A good Plan, if she did say so herself. Probably. Maybe. She hoped.) She gave Nori a wicked and uncertain grin as Buttercup Baggins, late of Bag End in the Shire, nervously gave her Took side full rein—she’d need that reckless bravado to do what she was about to do. 

It was all Thorin’s fault. Wasn’t it he who had said, “If this is to end in fire, let us burn together”? His confounded brave nobility and penchant towards selfless action was entirely too contagious to idealistic hobbits. Especially Tooks. She spared the dwarf king a short glare.

Buttercup straightened Nori’s gear the same way she had Thorin’s. The ex-thief grunted. “I’m beginning to think it isn’t a great sign when you fuss with a dwarf’s clothing. You’re not about to get all gushy on me next, are you?” He waggled his brows. “I am a fine specimen of dwarven masculinity, so I know it’ll be difficult to hear, but I’ve viewed you as a younger brother too long for romance. It’d feel wrong.”

What? And…what? A battle raged beneath them, yet the spark in Nori’s eyes brought a smile to her lips. _The tease._ “I have one brother,” she told him. “But I’d never turn away the chance to claim more.” 

Before Nori could respond, she patted his bearded cheek. “Take care of them, Nori. And hopefully, I’ll see you soon.”

“Now, what in Mahal’s name are you up t— _Buttercup!”_

Yes, it was Thorin’s fault, she decided as she slid down the rope Nori had used earlier to haul her onto the ramparts. Cackles escaped her at her dwarves’ bellows—even Thorin roared at her to get up there _right now._ By Yavanna, this was one particular pot she promised to stir more often. It was nice to have a group of temperamental dwarves worried about her.

She only hoped that worry translated into action and they followed her lead. 

The instant she touched down, she faced the gruesome devastation before her. The last speck of humor died, replaced by resignation. Donning her ring, she rushed in to help her allies where she could.

OoOoOo

Hack. Slash. Dodge. Breathe.

As was becoming instinctive, Buttercup’s world condensed into the narrow swathe of ground before and behind her. Nothing else existed. Nothing mattered. 

Until movement from behind drew her instant and full attention. She spun, Sting raised defensively, only to cheer as from four lowered ropes, her dwarves descended to the battlefield, each heavily armored with helmets covering most of their heads. 

All but Bifur. She quickly determined to keep close watch on the older toymaker. He’d been badly injured that first go around. It wouldn’t happen again if she could help it.

Buttercup retreated a step from the fight and removed her ring, nodding in greeting at one of Dain’s dwarves when he startled at her sudden appearance. “Dwalin!” she called as she hurried to join the Company. “Thorin?”

“Not yet,” he grumbled. One thick finger stabbed in her direction. “You. If you keep using that ring, you’re bound to get killed by an ally who doesn’t know you are there. Either keep it off or go back inside the mountain.”

Kíli and Fíli nodded agreement with each of Dwalin’s words. “Wouldn’t do to lose our mascot like that,” Fíli drawled with a smirk, rotating his two blades in short circles. Limbering up, she assumed. 

“Mascot? I’m a girl, so now I’m a _mascot?”_

“Can we talk about this later, lass?” Bofur said. Dwalin shouted the charge and most of the Company was off, jumping into the fray with far too much blood-thirstiness. 

Fíli and Kíli hung back for a moment. Fíli’s grin flashed. Kíli offered, “Nah. You were our mascot before. We just didn’t tell you to spare your pride.” 

Fíli sobered. “Stay with us, Mistress Baggins. We’ll fight beside you.”

Kíli nodded. “When Uncle joins us, he’ll be happy to find you in one piece.” His unfortunate use of words had Buttercup's free hand slapping to her neck. He nudged her with an elbow. “Try not to die, okay?”

 _Right. No losing my head._ A hysterical thought with an equally hysterical, muffled giggle—as if she’d gone out of her way to die last time. Kíli winked, and she found herself beaming nervously back at him. 

“Ready?” Fíli asked.

“Re—hey!” Buttercup raced after them, hearing the Durins chortling. 

Time passed. Hours, she thought, and she very quickly discovered being visible had its own monstrous drawbacks. Foes laughed upon spotting her and inevitably thought her the weakest link—which she was. That, too, became apparent. She was a rank novice thrust into conditions a hardened warrior would struggle to survive, and if not for Fíli, Kíli, and the Iron Hills dwarves around them, she’d have died a thousand times. 

_This was a mistake,_ her Baggins side proclaimed. The Took side didn’t care. Mistake or not, she was with her Company where she belonged. 

_Except we’re not, anymore, are we,_ the overwrought Baggins side snapped. Even without the ring, she kept getting lost in the mix, too short to be located once she’d been parted from the Durin brothers during an orc sortie that had almost broken the dwarves’ lines. Then in a howl, _We aren’t trained for this!_

A fact that was pounded home with each minute. Buttercup yelped when an elf facing off against one of the taller orcs backed into her, dumping her into the dirt and nearly trampling her underfoot. “Apologies,” the elf said, dancing around her body as he fought. 

“Accepted,” she squeaked, making herself smaller.

“Obliged,” the elf panted. “You should not be here, halfling.”

“Thank you for the commentary. I shall keep it in mind,” she said rather breathlessly. The fight carried him to one side. Buttercup rolled to freedom in the other direction. 

“Do that,” he called back over one shoulder.

Buttercup readjusted her grip on Sting and scampered upright, only to shriek as a sword slashed at her. A few blond curls tumbled to the ground in its wake. That settled it: her Baggins’ side had the right of it. She did not have the skills to survive this. 

Next, the back swing of a big mattock came close to gutting her. Then a sword from another direction. In desperation, she sought high ground. Something stable. 

She jumped onto an Iron Hills dwarf’s back. “Sorry, sorry,” she babbled. “I’m with King Thorin’s Company. Lost them.”

The muscular behemoth of a dwarf—close to Dwalin’s stature, she hazarded to guess—jerked around to look at her in disbelief. His focus, she was gratified to note, did not falter from the battle sufficiently to ruin his guard. Her brief glimpse provided a craggy face with slightly flattened nose, small, stone-like eyes, and beard of the same yellow as her hair. If she’d not been endeared of the dwarf before—and was she ever as he defended them both with Buttercup on his back like a fauntling—the hair would have won her over. 

Blonds had to stick together, after all. 

“What’s your name, halfling?” the dwarf shouted over his shoulder before using his shield to bash in a goblin’s head with a left-ward swing.

“Buttercup,” she said, adjusting her knees to keep her perch. Then minding her manners, “Buttercup Baggins, at your service. What service it is at the moment.”

The dwarf snorted. “Bersi, son o’ Brosi at yours.” She clutched him as he spun around, kicking a foe away to save another Iron Hills dwarf even as he used the flat end of the mattock to slam flat another skull. (Was this a hobby of his?)

“Bersi,” the Iron Hills dwarf Bersi had saved said. He was younger, she thought, based upon the little of his face visible in his helmet. The dwarf’s white, crooked teeth flashed, all the whiter against his coal-black beard. “This is no time to be picking up the lassies.”

Bersi guffawed. “You’re too young, lad. Once you reach my age, you’ll realize anytime is a good time to pick up a lassie. Besides…” He winked back at Buttercup. “This one did the deciding that she should be picked up by me.”

“I couldn’t resist?” Buttercup could not believe she was having this conversation. “It’s the hair.” She ducked low with Bersi as an orc’s ax swung over their heads. “Always been a sucker for blonds,” she managed in a high-pitched, shaky voice.

“Really now?” Bersi asked as calm as if they hadn’t almost been decapitated. (Buttercup risked a second to double-check her neck. She sagged. _Still intact.)_

“Yes,” she babbled on. “At least until recently.” 

“No offense, lass,” another of the dwarves interjected. Thinner than the other two, he had blond hair a shade darker than herself and Bersi. “But for one of us, you’d better qualify as a mascot.”

“Mascot!” she huffed. “I will have you know, I am quite sufficiently female for _any_ worthy—” Then the world stopped, and her words with it. 

A spear flew in slow motion, aiming right at her head—and Bersi’s. A lightning-quick realization: Bersi’s back was turned. The fellow who’d dubbed her a mascot (she was going to get a complex about that if she hung around dwarves much longer) began to spin around, his lips parting, but Buttercup acted first. 

Screaming with sudden fury, Buttercup surged upward with all her strength and sliced across the spear’s path with Sting. _Stupid, stupid, stupid Took,_ raced through her mind. This couldn’t work. The timing had to be perfect to intercept a spear and she was a novice, idiot! Not to mention the strength needed was far more—

 _Oh, shut up,_ she shouted at the bit of Baggins logic, disbelieving it bothered her _now._

Somehow, Sting’s flat edge collided with the spear’s metallic tip and sent it flying off in a spin. Buttercup almost fell over Bersi’s shoulder at the force of it, clutching his right shoulder guard like a life preserver. Buttercup’s mouth dropped as she watched the spear’s haft slam into another dwarf’s armor, barely drawing his notice. 

“That’s it, Bersi,” the other blond dwarf proclaimed. “We’re keeping her.”

OoOoOo

As the day waxed on, Buttercup could not stop shaking. Every muscle quaked from exertion until it was almost impossible to hold both Sting and Bersi. It was with impossible relief that she heard a familiar chorus of “Bilbo!” “Buttercup!” “Lass!”

Bersi was surrounded by the Ri brothers in a flash. Dori’s worried eyes rushed over her, and she reciprocated, anxiously noting the gash on the eldest Ri’s forehead that bled into his left eyebrow. His nose had bled at some point, too, staining his lips and beard with blood. 

Nori hugged his left arm close to his body as if it had suffered a break. The fleshy part of one cheek was puffy, not quite reaching upward to give him a black eye, but it was a near thing. He held his mace in his right hand, barring orcs and goblins from reaching Buttercup or his brothers with hot-blooded fury, his face red and teeth bared. 

Ori’s eyes were wide, the whites showing. He twitched at every sign of movement—and movement abounded in the seething mass of combatants. He never stilled, not for a heart beat. 

“Here now,” Dori said. “The lads are worried about you, Mistress Baggins.” He offered one arm up in a clear signal to transfer to him.

“Hey, get your own mascot,” the dark blond warrior from the Iron Hills said. “This one’s ours.”

“She traveled with us all the way from the Shire,” Nori snapped, that feral look never leaving his face. Then with a sudden glint in his eyes, “She called me brother. We’ve the stronger claim.”

Bersi snorted. Then after thrusting her to Dori with painful urgency, he lunged forward to aid Nori as two wargs leaped over the dwarf ranks before him to bring Nori down. 

“Nori!” Buttercup shrieked, wiggling for freedom, but Dori held her under one arm like bunch of firewood and refused to let her go. 

She needn’t have feared. Ori became a raging animal of war, shouting and wielding his two axes like one born to them. Between the scholar and Bersi, the wargs were slain quickly, but then more came. And more. 

Dori dumped Buttercup behind him to grab Nori’s feet and slide his brother to safety, Nori shouting Khuzdul all the while. Buttercup frantically drew Sting to guard their flank as a goblin slew a dwarf to their right—not Bersi’s unnamed black-haired friend, but the dual-wielding dwarf she remembered from the day before—and ran right at them. 

Sting clanged as it clashed with the goblin’s sword. The creature snarled at her and laughed, displaying wickedly sharp teeth. Her belly knotted, and her throat tightened, but she held her ground. With little warning, it lashed out with a dagger in its opposite hand, and Buttercup jerked her belly backwards, slamming her backside squat into something hard.

_Oh. No._

She jumped, weapons instinctively jerking upwards, only to settle as arms came around her and big hands closed around her wrists. “You,” Thorin murmured beside her ear, sending shivers through her body, “should not be out here.”

“You’re here,” she blurted rather breathlessly. 

Thorin smiled a dangerous smile and stalked towards the goblin. With one powerful sweep of the ax— _that_ ax—the goblin was cut neatly into two (yet another sight among too many she’d never be able to wash out of her mind). Nori, Dori and Ori began to cheer—a cheer soon taken up by all the surrounding dwarves. Their king had arrived, and the tenor of the entire battle was witness to it. 

Thorin stood tall. His gaze swept across the battlefield. Then to Dori, “This is no place for our hobbit. Get her to safety.” 

Buttercup was surrounded by the Ris in a blink. Before Dori could lead her away by the arm, Thorin stepped close, grabbed the back of her head and pulled her forehead to his. 

“Mistress Baggins,” he said. “The line of Durin owes you a debt that will not be forgotten.” Then slowly drawing back as she gaped like an idiot, her heart pounding out a joyful, squealing song, Thorin murmured, eyes twinkling with devilish humor and warning, “Jumping on a dwarf’s back and proclaiming him appealing would be a brazen declaration among my people. Be careful who you make such proclamations to. We of the Khazâd are a possessive lot, our maids few and zealously guarded.”

She flamed red, mouth dangling. 

“Jumped on Bersi’s back too, she did, my king,” one of the Iron Hills dwarves stated as he beat off five orcs with the aid of an elf. “Her dwarf brothers may have some suitors to contend with come evening.”

What? She tried to speak. She did! But her fool jaw just dangled and dangled. And her skin heated all the hotter. 

“Ya think I have a shot?” Bersi asked, throwing a grin and a wink back at her. The golden-haired dwarf grunted as a pike slammed into his armored chest, but then he yanked the pike closer (and its orc with it) to ram his forehead into his foe’s. Down the orc went. “You did say you preferred blonds,” he added in a distracted shout.

“I said until recently!” Then her eyes went saucer wide. Nori grinned knowingly, Ori shook his head sympathetically, and Buttercup refused to look any further. _Oh, Buttercup Baggins, you and your big mouth._ She hid her face in Dori’s chest, appalled and mortified beyond reckoning. 

Dori held her, then abruptly jerked her aside at something she didn’t see. Thorin roared, Bersi echoed him, and other Iron Hills dwarves took up the call. 

When it had passed, Buttercup was standing at Dori’s side, watching to ensure none of her dwarves—which now included Bersi and his friends—had fallen. Thorin jerked his head sharply. “Get her out of here, Dori.”

As Dori, Nori and Ori hustled her from the scene and back towards Erebor (just how had she wound up so far from the mountain?) she heard Thorin shout, “Sons of Durin! To me!”

OoOoOo

They never made it back to the mountain. Dori, Nori, Ori and Buttercup found themselves caught in a knot of fighting that would not end, one that ensnared Gandalf, the Elvenking, the lady elf Buttercup remembered from Mirkwood—Tauriel, she thought her name was—as well as Bombur and Bifur. Where Bofur might be, she didn’t know.

“Buttercup Baggins,” Gandalf had exclaimed upon spotting her among the Ri brothers. His staff swung in arcs, taking out orcs and goblins without pause. Old, he might be, but he moved like one in his prime. “This is no place for a hobbit!”

And this was news to her?

A series of booms to her right—Buttercup chanced a fleeting glance to find the source. _Trolls._ Since Bert, Bill and whatever-his-name-was, she had a healthy respect for the damage the lumbering beings could do. Stupid they were, but they were unconscionably strong. 

There were two of them, batting aside the dwarves and elves attempting to bring them down as they stomped into the defenders’ midst, their eyes proclaiming who their target was: the Elvenking. Buttercup saw a flash of long blond hair and red—two elves charged forward to harass one troll with the coordination of a pack of wolves. _Tauriel and Legolas,_ she realized and took courage in it.

When the Elvenking himself took on the other troll, Gandalf with him, Dori, Nori, and Ori rushed in to assist, Dori with a quick, “Stay back!”

She was but a split second from ignoring that bit of nonsense when a goblin broke through Bombur’s defense. That quick, the troll and the Ri brothers were abdicated in favor of helping her other friend. 

Battle. Buttercup hated it. No, she _loathed_ it like she’d never loathed anything in her life. It was a voracious beast that ate all in its path. She prayed for it to end well this time, yet with each cry around her, she pictured a friend slain. Thorin. Fíli and Kíli. Bard. Westley. (Where was that masked man?) 

On and on it went, until she felt she could scream. Until at last, body shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, the eagles arrived. Beorn, too—she saw her big friend in his bear form plowing through orcs like they were toys. Bolg was slain by Fíli. Azog…she blearily considered that he’d been less obvious this time. 

Then it was over. The Company slowly assembled itself, driven to seek one another out, to assure themselves their friends lived. It was with joy that they found Fíli and Kíli (Buttercup squealed as they each swept her up, swung her around, and scolded her for vanishing on them the way she had), and then Gloin and his brother Oin. 

When she spied Thorin striding proudly beside his cousin, Dain, through the Iron Hills dwarves, she melted against Dori, daring to hope it was over. The Durins had survived. The Elvenking lived, his son lived, Bard lived…

Buttercup whooped in victory, throwing a fist into the air. Then she did an impromptu jig, shaking her hips and singing in her native tongue with arms lifted. She didn’t care if her voice was hoarse from all the screaming and lack of any water this day. She didn’t care that elves eyed her with skepticism and dwarves at turns chuckled or gave her a wide berth. 

She did care that Thorin grinned tiredly. She planned to memorize that smile, to pin it upon the walls of her heart for when she didn’t have him nearby anymore and the Shire seemed empty without her dwarves. 

But that was for later. Today, she danced.

Today was good.

But then came the news. Bofur had fallen. 

Buttercup burst into sobs and collapsed to the ground. But… But… It just wasn’t _fair!_


	7. Fixing Things is Hard to Do

When Buttercup splashed onto the bushes the next morning, she burst into giggles laced heavily with hysteria, rivulets of tears streaming down her cheeks. Shock gonged through her body with reverberations deep enough to set her bones to aching. 

What had happened? How? _Why?_

Time was broken, and all the Valar could manage was to recruit a _hobbit_ to their aid? Her? Had the lot of them, and Eru, gone utterly insane? 

_Yes,_ a part of her decided with wide-eyed disbelief. _Yes, yes, and yes again._ As they said, the proof of the pudding was in the eating, and this pudding was a gelatinous and repugnant blob of goo. 

_Change one thing, and the ripples spread, causing more changes,_ the sole rational part of her posited. By altering her dwarves’ actions, she disrupted Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli from meeting their fate, yes, but she’d inadvertently changed Bofur’s.

She laughed harder until she howled. No, it wasn’t funny in the least, but for this to be placed on _her?_ Really? Not great minds like the Elvenking’s or Gandalf’s. Oh, no. Not on broader shoulders such as Dwalin’s or Balin’s. No, the world had gone and broke itself, and the answer it decided to spit out was Buttercup Baggins.

It was too ludicrous for words. 

The touch of absurdity fled, stealing away her giggles with it. (The thief. How _dare_ it? That was her job!) 

Leaving her sagging into the bush with terror cuddled close like an unwelcome lover. Tweak something here, and something way over yonder would go out of whack. The scope of the challenge she’d been handed boggled her mind. How was she supposed to figure this out? She could not leave copious notes for herself if she was forced to keep repeating this day. (Granted, if it kept repeating until some magical combination did the trick, she’d have ample time to memorize things.)

_Bofur,_ a part of her sniffled. _I am so sorry._ Oops didn’t quite cover it, she didn’t think. (Was there a chapter she’d missed in the Hobbits’ Guide to Good Etiquette that covered the subject? Did one send flowers or a gift?) 

A boot scuffed the broken pavement. Deliberately, she assumed. Then a masculine voice said, “I would ask if something was the matter, but the question would be moot. May I be of assistance?”

Westley. Buttercup shook her head no, mopping the tears and snot from her face. She grimaced in embarrassment at the deplorably messy sight she doubtless presented. “I quite think I’m alone with this,” she said, her voice dejected. 

And by the Shire, she hated that tone. Bagginses didn’t use it—they were too stubbornly proper to wallow like this. Tooks didn’t use it—they were dramatic enough, but it was offset by an unquenchable optimism. She’d only seen it fail once in her lifetime. 

_So where, Buttercup Baggins, is this coming from? Hmm?_ Things had gone wrong, but this story’s end had not yet been written. Granted, her emotions felt scraped paper-thin with gaping and raw holes appearing in the weave, but that was no excuse to behave like a faunt, her inner self scolded, wagging an admonishing finger. 

It was like having an inner Bilbo, she sighed. She conceded that perhaps in this case that was a good thing.

Westley clucked his tongue, and she felt all the worse. He stepped closer, bringing his masked face into view. “Alone? There are people abounding if you but look. Help is but a request away,” he added with a flourish, bowing gallantly. 

Her Took and Baggins side eyed the blob of despondency caked to her heart like day-old taffy with matching determination. It, they deemed, did not belong. They tackled it, beating it out of existence and leaving her much lighter. “I suppose there are.”

Without asking, Westley plucked her from the bushes and set her on her bare feet. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am—”

“Westley,” she finished for him, a weak little grin breaking through her former gloom. “Or the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

He stilled, his blue eyes all the bluer for the black mask and bright sunlight. “You’ve heard of me.”

Buttercup drew herself up. “Westley, I have a story to tell you. Wizards and elves have so far been no help. Perhaps what I need is the scheming wisdom of a pirate.”

One black-gloved hand touched his chin while the opposite arm folded about his middle. “You have my curiosity.”

Buttercup startled. “Oh! My manners! Buttercup Baggins at your service. My tale, you see, begins in these very bushes…”

OoOoOo

That day set the pace for too many that followed. She started her mornings retelling her tale to Westley. Her first chat with him had revealed a frighteningly brilliant intellect. Though that daily recital ate up a few minutes more with each repetition, he never failed to have ideas or encouragement.

Even if he did think her six courses short of a seven course meal. ( _All that’s left is the sugary, fluffy dessert,_ a part of her snickered.) 

It was his suggestion to map out the events of the day using his pocket watch. No true plan could be made unless they knew as many variables as possible. With that in mind, she vowed to follow the key individuals throughout this day, one at a time. Starting with Thorin.

Getting past Nori was the first obstacle. The first morning, she chatted at the dwarf from below, determined to glean some way to minimize the time it would take to convince him to permit her into the mountain. _Without_ telling anyone else. 

Arguing didn’t work. The auburn-haired dwarf’s ears turned into fortresses of _I-can’t-hear-you_ the longer she railed at him. (She blamed Dori for that.) Wheedling didn’t work, either. Dain and the enemy kept arriving before she managed to set one haired foot inside the mountain. Perhaps she wasn’t using the right tone of voice or some nuance was wrong, for try as she did to emulate that first success with him, she failed to repeat it. 

So it was with the sense of coming to the end of her options that Buttercup changed tactics. From hence forth, she vowed, she’d show Nori no mercy—she unleashed her most dire weapon upon him. Yes, indeed. She’d go full chatterbox on the stubborn dwarf. 

It shouldn’t have worked, but she was a Blue Ribbon natterer on a mission. She pestered the stuffing out of the poor dwarf from the instant she arrived each morning. 

Time was a commodity that (apparently) she had in spades, but she refused to waste it. What if it stopped misbehaving all of a sudden? An unlikelier event with each day, but a potential one nonetheless.

With that fear lurking in the recesses of her mind, Buttercup donned her ring when the enemy arrived, waited for Nori to make his egress from the mountain behind Thorin hours and _hours_ later (at 3:53 pm to be exact), and openly joined him when the dwarves were entrenched in battle. Too late for the dwarves to argue with her intention.

There, in the heat of battle, she resumed her verbal assault.

Nori was flabbergasted—they all were at her sudden appearance. (Or perhaps aghast was a better descriptor, for none of them were happy to see her in the thick of battle with her “letter opener” and not much else.) To their further consternation, their burglar had lost his mind and developed an unnatural fascination with Nori. And— _and!_ —he seemed oblivious to the danger swirling around them.

Blood and death all around, Buttercup still giggled, which did not reassure her friends one bit. Quite the contrary, for from that point on, they tossed her looks of pity and alarm. 

Buttercup ignored that and chattered like a magpie, peppering Nori with a never ending barrage of questions. Whether it was the pity that did the trick, she wasn’t sure, but Nori spilled more on that bloody field than at any other time. 

She learned he’d taken to stealing during the dwarves’ early exile after the Ris’ only sister had died of deprivation. (Buttercup’s throat had tightened to learn that, and at the pain that flashed through Nori’s eyes as he snarled the explanation to her.)

She learned Nori fancied a lass back in Ered Luin named Signí, a maiden a decade his senior with (according to Ori) nut brown hair and eyes, and a cheerful way about her that caused all around her to join in her laughter. (Buttercup hoped to one day meet the dwarrowmaid.)

She learned that Nori had a deep phobia of rodents—especially rats—and collected spoons—with or without permission—from every home he entered. A memento to remember souls by, he claimed. (By that, she took that Bag End was short one spoon.)

No, sir, her dwarves were not happy with her presence on the battlefield, and truly, they were justified (even if they didn’t remember it). She died dozens of times, that despite Nori daily growing frustrated enough to start spitting out fighting instructions. 

(She weaseled still more from him when she lay dying in his arms four or five times. It was a terribly low way to go about it, but a hobbit did what a hobbit had to do.)

Learning to sword fight in the middle of a battlefield didn’t seem the most opportune of timing, but she certainly didn’t lack for opportunities to test each skill. Slowly, she began to improve.

Then came the glorious day when she obtained what she was after. The key. The glorious key to unlock all things Nori. In a word: Dori. 

The following morning—she thought she was on the nineteenth repetition by now, or maybe the twentieth—she raced to Erebor’s gates, smiled up at her friend and said, “Nori, my fine chap. A rope please?”

Nori huffed, folding arms across his chest as had become their habit, and began to speak. “Bilbo. There is no way—”

“Let me up, or I’ll make sure Dori knows what happened to that masterpiece of a cake Dori labored over for a full week for Ori’s fiftieth birthday celebration.”

Nori’s lips parted. The whites of his eyes showed. 

She beamed up at him, hands folded before her. “I do apologize for resorting to blackmail, but you, Nori, are a difficult nut to crack. Threats didn’t work.” Then with a bigger smile. “This will do in a pinch.”

“How did you…? What did…?” A finger pointed at her along with a glare. “You’re bluffing.”

“Nope,” she cheerfully informed him. “Let me jog your memory. It involves a bit too much ale, a bar fight that left you half-blind with a black eye, and a nice outline of your body smashed down upon the entire confection.” She clucked her tongue. “Then came the panicking. Poor Dori. He never did discover what happened to his labor of love.”

The rope dropped. Nori eyed her like she’d gone and turned into an orc on him. Just for kicks, for the first time since she’d begun working on him, she patted his cheek. “Would it make things easier on you if you knew I was a maid?”

By his sputtering, she assumed not.

On to her next challenge: Thorin.

OoOoOo

The first day, she followed the King under the Mountain invisibly, even through the battle. The pocket watch allowed her to determine when things transpired, but more, watching him in the throes of madness broke her heart.

Buttercup witnessed for the first time arguments with his sister-sons, Balin, and Dwalin. As each dwarf departed in turn, she alone saw the flicker of sanity and pain flame to life in Thorin’s blue eyes. But just as fast, the kindled spark of life faded, leaving his eyes a lackluster shade. 

She couldn’t leave him like this. Should she stumble upon the right combination of events to end this endless cycle, she didn’t want him to carry more guilt than she could prevent. To this end, she delayed in moving on to follow Balin through his day. 

No, she began her campaign to jolt Thorin from his madness.

OoOoOo

The next thirty-three days—yes, _thirty-three!_ —were spent single-handedly learning the ins and outs of How Not to Cure Dragon-Sickness, by Buttercup Baggins. (By Yavanna if things ever returned to normal, with wondrous things like _tomorrows_ and _days after_ , she vowed to write the valuable experience down for future generations.)

She started with the basics. The direct approach. She marched up to Thorin and slapped him across the face. “Snap out of it.”

It ended in lots of screaming—his berserker with fury and hers the shrill type of a young girl scared out of her wits—then that ax, and blood and… Well, in the end, it _did_ work, after a fashion, for Thorin was quite sane and distraught as she bled out. 

“No,” he choked, hands hovering over her body as if he could prevent both blood and spirit from leaking out of it. He’d ripped the crown from his head and hurled it away before placing a gentle, shaking hand to her cheek. His palm was rough with calluses and grime, but she savored the sensation. (How often did a girl get this much of the king’s full attention?) 

“Bilbo, my friend. My brave, foolish friend. What have you done? What have I—?”

“’S okay,” she slurred. “We’ll do b’ttr ‘morrow.” She missed the rest, being occupied with dying and all. 

What did she learn? Shock and pain worked, but she didn’t see how sacrificing herself or any of the Company was a winning solution. 

On to attempt #2. Sneaking across the treasury with her ring, she stole Thorin’s ax as he marveled over yet another golden mathom. _Then_ she slapped him across the face, told him to snap out of it, and stood her ground with arms before her chest, confident since he’d been disarmed.

Until he yanked a dagger from his boot. Lesson learned: stay out of the dwarf’s reach. _Far_ out of it. He was a walking arsenal.

Buttercup grew more creative. She searched out pine cones within Dale to haul into the mountain (Nori watching with nonplussed, saucer-sized eyes) and proceeded to pelt Thorin with them for a good twenty minutes while invisible, evading him with sudden bursts of speed. 

It did nothing but rile the king. The good news was that a Thorin weighed down by all the gold he wore was decidedly less fleet of foot than herself. Buttercup emerged the victor. No death was had that day, and by the end, she was giggling like mad. 

It wasn’t every day an adult got to play catch-me like a fauntling. 

Her actions, however, did prevent him from leaving madness behind. So incensed was he that he spent the entire battle inside Erebor attempting to pin her down. It was back to the drawing board. 

The next day, she drafted Nori and the Durin princes to her cause. She had to, for she didn’t know Erebor’s layout nearly well enough. (Yet another chore to add to her growing list.) 

With their aid, she found one of King Thror’s famed silver fountains, and by dipping fingers into its waters, she discovered it brimming with cold mountain spring water. A bucket provided the means and directions to an overlook to the treasury provided the way. 

Tongue clamped between teeth, she hauled the heavy bucket up stairway after stairway until she had her perch to strike from. There, she waited, Nori and Durins scandalized. (She rolled her eyes. Thorin might be king, but he was still flesh and blood and rather deserved what he was about to get.) 

When Thorin’s endless pacing carried him in range, she tipped the bucket. _Splash!_ Thorin bellowed, Buttercup cheered. Then after a long moment where she beamed and Thorin practiced his most acidic glower, they were off. It was The Great Chase, Take II, with similar results. _(Bother.)_

On and on the attempts continued. She pelted him with applies (in true Shire tradition) when her annoyance reached a feverish pitch. She raced through his halls, singing boisterous songs. She snatched away his crown. She hastily assembled a fresh fruit pie from the elves’ provisions for the men of Dale to throw at his face (alas, she hadn’t the time to bake an actual crust), and poured a vat of stolen (she felt a twinge of guilt about that) molasses over his head. 

Thorin, she was more convinced than ever, had a head as dense as the stone walls of the mountain he loved. It was pure frustration that goaded her into her final action. Yes, frustration and a wee, itty-bitty kernel of temptation. A naughty, silken voice whispered seductively (the wanton thing) that Thorin wouldn’t remember any of these events. An enterprising hobbit might…just might, mind!…sneak in a little something for herself. 

No one would know. And she’d adored Thorin in silence so long. Surely it wouldn’t be _that_ bad to indulge herself a little bit… Right? 

That night, the idea refused to go away. It tantalized her with images that returned each time she thrust them from her mind. 

No. She wouldn’t do it. She had more pride than that.

Really.

For all that, Buttercup Baggins found herself ignoring the buzzing voice of disapproval that sounded an awful lot like her brother as she shucked her breast bands, begged and pleaded a dress from Bard’s daughter Tilda (the girl blinked in disbelief but then thrilled to have a _live_ doll to dress up), fluffed her hair and tucked a wildflower behind one pointed ear. 

Truly, she felt _horrible_ for considering taking such liberties (truly!), but she marched into Erebor, Nori trailing behind, then Ori falling in, then Bifur, and Gloin, and Dwalin… Her cheeks heated, but she was a hobbit on a mission. 

Really, this wasn’t for herself. It was for Thorin! Either today would be the day she dragged Thorin kicking and screaming from his madness, or she’d…she’d…

Tell the truth, she wasn’t certain what she’d do. But it’d be dire!

She donned the ring at the entrance to the treasury then crept into the space. Nerves jittered their way across her skin leaving behind pebbly gooseflesh. _This is wrong, Buttercup Baggins. Tookish even for the first Took!_ Her lips curved naughtily. 

_Just this once,_ she pacified her Baggins self. Tomorrow, she’d be respectable again. Yes, tomorrow. 

Reaching Thorin, she removed the ring. Before he could do more than blink a bit confusedly at her, she rose on tiptoes, claimed his beard in both hands and drew his lips to hers. 

This, she decided, was one way she wouldn’t mind dying at all.

OoOoOo

He didn’t run her through. As Buttercup ended the kiss, her toes curling into the pile of coins and gems underfoot, she counted that a win. His lips tasted just a bit of ale, and his breath stank, but by his Mahal, returned to sanity or not, that kiss had sent sparks through her system brighter than Gandalf’s fireworks.

Then came that hard part: opening her eyes. Running in a skirt wasn’t going to happen, so whatever Thorin’s reaction might be, she was going to have to face the music head-on. ( _Drat it._ Then almost immediately, a counter thought: _You should have thought of that first, you brazen thing!)_

Her eyes creaked open with infinite slowness, only to find themselves captured by an intense blue stare set within an incredulous face. An intense blue stare lacking one shred of gold-sickness in their depths. 

“You,” Thorin said hoarsely. “You are no male.”

_He noticed,_ the feminine core of her heart exulted. It proceeded to dance around with fists in the air while the rest of her prodded her lovesick-ninny self to the side to make way for Buttercup, Mistress of Changing Time. 

“That worked,” she breathed, her embarrassment falling away. “You’re sane.” Then she jumped up and down, squealing. “You’re back! It worked!” Then singing across the massive space to the Company, “Thorin’s back!”

Answering cheers filled the air, and treasure clinked loudly as a dozen dwarf boots slogged quickly across the treasury. 

A big hand folded slowly around her arm, one finger at a time. Her smile wobbled. _Oh, dear._ Mistress of Changing Time raced for cover, leaving the lovesick ninny to face the consequences of letting her lips wander where they wished. Using that hold, Thorin turned her to face him once more. 

“Bilbo,” he said, and a teaspoon of temper entered his voice. 

“I know,” she said soberly, one hand coming to his chest and giving it a pat. When it tried to linger, she yanked it back. _(Bad hand! Bad!)_ “I took liberties, Thorin, and I’m… Well, I’m not _sorry,_ sorry, but I mostly regret that.”

“Mostly,” he repeated, his voice giving nothing away. He reached up and removed his crown. His face contorted with strong emotions, then he hurled it away. Those penetrating eyes returned to her, his chest heaving silently. 

One of Buttercup’s feet crossed on top of the other, the hair of one tickling the toes of the opposite. Her hands twisted in the fabric of the borrowed skirt. She couldn’t meet his gaze as she flushed bright red, heat stealing not just into her cheeks but her ears. 

Thorin’s stare never left her. She didn’t have to look up to verify it, for it was a tangible thing. Her heart pounded away in uncertainty. He didn’t love her—how could he when he’d thought other than what she was? Even if he’d suspected she was female, logic said he still couldn’t love her. Thorin was all dignity and regally stubborn bullheadedness. He was a _king,_ by the Shire. 

Which made her actions all the more…rude. Her Baggins side was Not Happy with her. At all.

Despite that, a smile dared to dance upon her lips. This kiss would be hers to treasure for many long years. When she was old, rocking away in her chair in Bag End, she’d have this to take out and cherish. She, Buttercup Baggins, had adventured across Middle Earth, faced trolls and dragons, and even kissed a king. 

“How long…” Thorin began, only to be interrupted as his whooping nephews enveloped him in desperately relieved hugs.

OoOoOo

The Company exited Erebor and joined the fray much sooner than any time before, and the evidence of their king’s presence on the dwarves was noticeable. Buttercup had wiggled out of her dress, much to her dwarves’ shock—at least, until they realized she wore trousers and tunic underneath—and charged into battle with them. (She didn’t bother informing them the mithril shirt was too cumbersome for a dress, or that she’d left it hidden in some bushes in Dale.)

Thorin had objected, but she’d shrugged, smiled, and told him he couldn’t prevent her, tossing her magic ring as a reminder. He’d blustered and rumbled, but in the end, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield remained together. 

As had become her habit, Buttercup stationed herself near Nori, nodding when the dwarf suddenly began belting out instructions. “Move your feet,” Nori shouted at one point, exasperation and worry dripping from the words. “Don’t just stand there. Move.”

Move. Right. He’d said that a number of times, but she’d yet to master moving both sword and feet together. 

“Your sword work has improved,” Dwalin grumbled during a brief lull. With bushy brows low, he inspected her with narrowed eyes and head cocked to one side. 

“Indeed.” Thorin joined him. 

Buttercup’s shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “Nori’s been teaching me.”

“That doesn’t count,” Dwalin groused. “A few instructions in the heat of battle?”

“Well, it’s the only time I have to learn,” she answered primly. 

Then an orc horn sounded, the enemy forces moved, and it was back to business.

OoOoOo

That night, basking in the warmth of her friends, she sat between Dori and Bofur around a low campfire before Erebor’s gates near the tents in which healers worked to save as many of the wounded as they could. She would have been patting herself on the back, for the entire Company had survived, but news had reached them: Bard had fallen.

Buttercup poked at the ground with a stick she’d picked up. She suspected that qualified as Not Good. Time, she was certain, would continue with its tantrum. 

Bard was dead, and she’d survived. Part of it had been luck, she knew. But part as well she attributed to the small lessons Nori initiated with each day’s repetition combined with the way the Company had endeavored to protect her as much as they could. She suspected they’d have done as much if they’d still believed her Bilbo, but that protective streak seemed amplified with the revelation. 

_Mascot, indeed._

At Ori, Fíli and Kíli’s urging, she’d regaled them with her entire tale. None believed her, she didn’t think, but they chuckled nonetheless to hear her “imaginary” escapades with their uncle. She wouldn’t have breathed a word of it otherwise, but Thorin had been away for hours meeting with Dain, Gandalf, the Elvenking…and Alfrid Lickspittle, who’d claimed leadership of the men the instant the fighting had ended. She caught only glimpses of Thorin as he strode hither and yon about some purpose or other.

Tomorrow, she’d have to chat with Westley about this latest snafu. And start following Bard to determine how he’d fallen and take steps to prevent it. With a frown, she snapped her stick and tossed it into the fire. 

Buttercup determined to remain awake, Westley’s pocket watch in her hand. Nori had caught her checking it, but the thief didn’t ask. He watched, though. Like a hawk. 

When footsteps approached out of the darkness, she barely reacted. The others, however, slid hands onto the nearest weapons. “Can we help ya?” Bofur asked with a falsely cheery smile.

“You must be Bofur,” came Westley’s voice. 

Buttercup sprang onto her feet and grabbed the man around the waist. “Westley! This is the first time I’ve seen you other than our daily bush encounter.”

“What encounter?” Ori materialized at her side and frowned up at the masked man.

“Ori?” Westley asked.

Buttercup nodded. To the Company, “Westley is a dear friend. He’s helped me immeasurably.”

“What’s with the mask?” Bofur asked abruptly, pointing with his pipe. “Are you disfigured?”

Disfigured? Buttercup rounded on the dwarf, all set to give him a piece of her mind, but Westley spoke first.

“Oh no, they’re terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them someday.” The pirate followed up his glib words with a small smirk. 

Tension rose as her dwarves stared at the man through narrowed eyes. Then in unison, they burst into laughter. Bofur tugged at his hat’s brim in silent salute.

Westley bowed, a smile dancing upon his lips. Then more soberly to Buttercup, “I didn’t believe a word of your tale this morning, amusing as I found it.” He clucked his tongue. “You should have been more persuasive.”

“I take it you believe me now.” She bobbed on her tired feet, head tilted.

“Difficult not to believe when events unfold as your new and eccentric friend warned you,” he said, his tone lightly scolding. “Things progressed almost exactly as you detailed. King Bard’s loss, however, was glaringly absent from your tale.”

Buttercup ran fingers through her chopped curls, nodding tiredly. “That’s new.”

Westley’s lips pursed. “Another change.”

She nodded again. “I don’t understand how. Nothing I did should have affected Bard.” Her skin itched. Turning, she found her dwarves listening with quiet intensity.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Bofur said, waving his pipe. Then to Westley, “She told you all of this would happen? _Before_ it happened?” His eyes slid to Buttercup with a silent message: _You’ve got some explaining to do, lass._

Buttercup blushed and coughed into one hand, knowing herself found out. She’d been more consumed with her illicit kiss than informing the Company of current events. Not a proud thing to admit, but it was the truth.

“She did,” Westley averred. His attention returned to Buttercup, and one hand to his chin. “What, exactly, did you alter today?”

Buttercup’s lips parted, but it was Kíli who spoke next. “How many time have you kissed Uncle?” Then, “Hey!” followed the distinctive sound of Fíli’s hand slapping his brother’s arm. 

In lieu of a direct answer, she told Westley brightly, “I was able to wake Thorin early.”

“You do realize,” Fíli commented, “we are traumatized for life.”

Buttercup stamped one foot. “Oh, fiddlesticks. You weren’t close enough to see anything. Besides,” she said, wiggling fingers dismissively, “you won’t remember it tomorrow.”

“Unless you do it again,” Bofur teased. “How do we know you haven’t been cozying up to each of us. Comparing skills, so to speak.”

_“Bofur,”_ she whined. Then as they all dissolved into laughter, she wagged a finger at them. “The lot of you are going to drive me daft.”

“You already have to be to kiss Thorin,” Nori drawled. 

With a growl, she gave them her back. “Anything else?” she asked Westley.

Though his lips twitched and his eyes crinkled, the man returned to business. “You failed to mention the ROUSes this morning. That was a major oversight.”

“ROUSes?” she asked, mind blank and eyes blinking up at him. Nori, she noted, blanched. Darting looks between the two males, she finally demanded of Westley, “What’s an ROUS?”

“Rodents,” Ori answered softly, plainly upset on his brother’s behalf. “Rodents of Unusual Size.”

Buttercup mouthed the words, her forehead creased. Then she blurted, “That didn’t happen the first time.”

“Are you certain?” Westley asked. “They poured out of the plains east of Dale and into the city. Too many of the men were overrun.”

Buttercup mouthed more words, this time aimless, formless. Then with all the confusion in the world, “How could that happen? I didn’t change anything that would lead to that.”

“Regardless, it happened,” he assured her.

OoOoOo

Long after he’d taken his leave, she churned that over in her mind. What possible ripple could summon giant rats? As the minutes ticked away, she kept close eye on the pocket watch and worried.

She remembered watching the clock tick from 10:03pm to 10:04pm. She stood to greet Thorin shyly upon his return. The instant the watch progressed to 10:05pm, she was waking to the horse’s wretched neigh and falling into the bushes.


	8. Sandwiches, Kisses, and ROUSes

The instant she touched down, Buttercup was in motion. After spitting a leaf from her lips, she fought against the bush. “Westley?” she called. “Westley?”

As soon as he’d extricated her from her thicket, she was off, dragging him along behind her again. “Buttercup Baggins,” she said before he could ask. “No, we haven’t met before, and no, I don’t often accost perfect strangers like this. Yes, I know who you are and…”

Westley sported that little smile of his as she rushed through her story, answering his questions before he could ask them. Down one refugee-stuffed street after another, they traveled, then into the square with the solemn man fountain. There, elves went about their business with quiet purpose, while more men loitered about aimlessly. Shock yet lingered in too many of the men’s eyes, echoes of their terrifying encounter with Smaug.

Buttercup wound down her story and halted near the dry fountain. Spinning on the ball of one foot brought her face to face with the pirate. “What do you think?”

“I think you may have—”

“—a problem ill-suited to one of your skills,” she finished for him. “Yes, yes, you’ve said it before. If I were you, I’d think the same thing. Unfortunately, I’m the one living this. I am not mad. That would be easier.”

A wider grin flashed. “You are certainly convincing enough,” he conceded. “Though it’s a good thing you—”

“—like my king or you fear to think what I’d dream up next.” She nodded judiciously. “I probably should have consulted you more about that, but…” Buttercup smirked and gave a little shrug. “…I enjoyed playing with Thorin a bit too much.”

“So you kissed him.” His masked head tilted to one side. 

“It was once,” she said primly. “I won’t do it again.” Truly. Honestly. Well, maybe just once more. In a few weeks. To bolster her spirits. That wasn’t too much to ask. 

“If you are committed to this venture, you’ll have to. Otherwise, you break the pattern you are beginning to establish and ruin all of your efforts.”

Um… “What?” she asked in a small voice.

“You say this is the only act to startle him from his madness?” Both arms crossed before his chest, and his focus sharpened. 

“Well, yes. So far, but—”

“Reinventing the wheel when you have one in hand is an exercise in futility,” he offered, clucking his tongue. 

She stepped closer. Then lowering her voice, she said, “I can’t kiss him every day, Westley.”

By the slide of the black silk covering the top half of his face, she knew his left eyebrow winged upwards. “Why not?”

“Because,” she hissed. A blush warmed her cheeks as Buttercup stole furtive looks around. _Oh, bother._ A pair of fair-haired elves blatantly eavesdropped from the opposite side of the fountain. When she glared at them, they flashed kind grins but didn’t budge from their location. 

“That is no answer,” her man in black decreed.

“It’s all the answer you are going to get.” She, too, folded arms across her chest. Her eyes narrowed with her best _continue-at-your-own-peril_ glare, and her foot took to a-tapping at a frenetic pace. 

He spread palms. “Then I will be unable to assist you.”

The foot tapping stopped instantly, replaced by an emphatic stomp. Then for good measure, she stamped the other foot, too. When he turned to depart, she grabbed hold of the hem of his shirt and refused to let loose. “Because I’m in love with him,” she burst. “While Thorin thinks I’m a good _male_ friend. The Company’s burglar, as a matter of fact.”

The humor left him so fast it startled her. Westley dropped to his knees before her and cupped her hands in his. “So quickly you dismiss love.”

Well…yes. How not? “He’s a king, Westley, and a dwarf. I’m just a hobbit.”

“Inconsequential obstacles to true love,” he rebuked. “Is your love so shallow, then?”

“He’s a _king,_ Westley,” she stressed again.

Her glare took on Thorin-proportions as the man again clucked his tongue. “You’ll get nowhere like that.”

“I’m not _trying_ to get—”

“Your word,” he said, eyes full of challenge. “Should you relive this day, from hence forth, you apprise me of this conversation and our progress in wooing your king for you.”

What? And…what? She shook her head, then she poked one finger in her ear canal. He could not be serious. 

“Love is too precious to throw away without a fight, Miss Baggins,” he said earnestly. 

Her objections died. Not because he’d swayed her—Thorin? In love with _her?_ Smaug would have been a more likely candidate—but because of the hint of yearning in his eyes. Somewhere, she suspected, was a maid who carted around Westley’s heart the same way Thorin did hers. She sadly wondered if Westley’s maiden was equally oblivious of the prize she’d stolen.

“Westley, I’m trying to save lives,” she tried. Priorities! Where were the man’s priorities?

The pirate waited with elf-like patience, unimpressed.

“He’s a _king,”_ she attempted one last time. 

“Hmm.” He nodded sharply. “We’ll work on your sense of self-worth at the same time. Your word, Miss Baggins.”

“My self-worth is fine,” she said with exasperation. “We’re wasting time.”

“Your word.”

“But—”

“That wasn’t the word.”

“But—”

“Still not right.” With a tiny shake of his head, he clucked his tongue. 

She threw up her hands. Bah. Fine! “Alright, you have my word. Can we now get back to business?” 

“Of course.”

Rolling her eyes dramatically, she whirled back around, intent upon getting to Bard. 

“One more thing.”

She halted. Instead of turning, she craned her head back and found him staring down at her with arms crossed before his chest. “Yes?”

“I’ll accompany you.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to object. “I begin to believe you,” he said softly. “You do not have me convinced, but in the unlikely event you are correct, you will need more eyes to help you. I will not remember these events come morning, but I can share any observations of importance after the battle is over. You cannot be everywhere at one time.”

Hmm. She considered his offer. “You’re right. Come with me.”

OoOoOo

First item on the agenda had been to speak with the war council—namely Gandalf, the Elvenking, and Bard. Fast. Efficiently. She had to warn them of the oncoming armies plus the new addition. (She’d yet to figure out how that change had come into play.)

“ROUSes? Time repeating itself?” Gandalf stared at her hard. Then in a mutter, “Inconceivable.” 

Buttercup groaned to hear that _word_ again. “You keep using that word,” she said flatly. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Gandalf blinked at her.

_Bah._ She gave up. None of the three men believed her. Gandalf ran one hand down his long gray beard, his eyes troubled and doubtful. The Elvenking’s eyebrow could not possibly climb higher, and Bard appeared ready to begin inspecting her for brain leakage from her ears. 

Buttercup flapped her hands at all three. “Oh, you three are impossible.” To Westley, “This never works.”

“You are not going about it the right way,” Westley countered, stepping closer to where Buttercup and the free peoples’ collected leaders congregated once again on the terrace overlooking Erebor. 

“Just who are you?” Gandalf asked in a low voice, fingers moving upon the crown of his staff. 

“This is Westley,” Buttercup interrupted. Little did her audience need to hear the rest of his claims. “He’s my friend.”

“Your friend,” Bard repeated, attention locked on the black-clad man being discussed. “I know you,” he told Westley. “You have been among us for some time, but you are not of Lake-town.”

Westley inclined his head. 

“Why are you masked?” Thranduil asked, a thread of warning in his voice.

Buttercup knew, she just _knew_ what the man would say. She didn’t believe Thranduil would find his jest nearly so amusing as her dwarves.

“They are quite comf—”

Down her foot stomped on his boot, ending his words. Westley didn’t flinch. Mild eyes descended to her with a hint of dry amusement within them.

Buttercup sighed to herself. _This day is a loss._ She smiled nervously up at the three leaders. Out of the corner of her mouth, “When we do this again tomorrow, what, pray tell, would be the correct way to go about this?” 

“Ask for some word or phrase, some disclosure from them that if they heard, they would believe your story,” was Westley’s swift response. 

Ask for it. Buttercup slapped her own forehead. _Dunderhead!_ All that time pestering Nori when she could have simply explained the situation and demanded he give her some tidbit of information that would convince him the next time around. Facing her pirate friend, she said, “If I have not expressed the sentiment before, let me do so now. I am eternally grateful to whichever of the Valar placed you in my path.”

His lips quirked. “As only you would know if you’ve expressed the sentiment before,” he pointed out, “you have me at a disadvantage.”

“This tells us nothing,” Gandalf huffed irritably.

Buttercup faced him. “Enemies are marching from Gundabad and Dol Guldur.”

“When do they arrive?” Westley asked.

“I haven’t timed that yet,” she said lightly, feeling her cheeks heat.

“Too busy kissing one’s king, I suppose,” the man dared tease. 

“Westley!” She stamped one foot. Then after a growl, she told Gandalf, “You have an hour. Maybe. But you need to know that at some point, ROUSes will flood Dale from the east. Last time, Bard led the efforts to repel them and was killed.” To Bard, “Don’t do that again. At least, not without a better strategy.” To Westley, “Will you help him?”

Westley nodded slowly. “As you wish. But you must survive, or I will be unable to tell you what I learn.”

“I’ll do my best.” Then turning demanding eyes on Gandalf, “I need a password.”

“Password?” he asked, startled. “My dear boy—”

“Girl,” she corrected. “Though I don’t suppose it’ll matter whether I betray my gender or not. No one will remember the next time we do this.” Annoying, but there it was. “What can I tell you when time loops us back here tomorrow that will convince you I have knowledge I should not have? Something you will heed, Gandalf.” Then to the other two, “You as well, please.”

The three leaders stared at one another with fraying tolerance for her lunacy. _(Botheration,_ she sighed.) 

“If I’m insane, giving me a sentence or word does nothing but waste a half minute. If I’m telling you the truth, it can save lives tomorrow…or today.” She flapped hands. “Whichever. Please.”

It was Gandalf who folded first, his eyes beginning to cloud with the beginnings of disquiet as if he was tempted to put more stock in her words. “If this happens again, tell me that I had lain captive in Dol Guldur. There, I saw what remained of Thorin’s father.” When she stiffened, Gandalf’s expression gentled. “He is dead now.”

Buttercup rubbed her face. Thorin had grieved his father’s loss for decades, she knew, but fearing and knowing the full of it were two different things. _Save that for another day._ If time never healed itself, Thorin didn’t need to hear this.

The Elvenking was next. “Does the hobbit know any Sindarin or Quenyan?” he asked of Gandalf.

“The ‘hobbit’ is right here,” she said.

The king didn’t even bother looking abashed. He hiked that one eyebrow again and bestowed a cool gaze upon her. 

“Some Sindarin,” Gandalf informed him.

Thranduil studied her for a silent stretch. Then abruptly making up his mind, he said, “You will tell me, _‘Tullen tye-rehtien.’_ In Westron, it means, ‘I am here to help you.’ Remind me of my wife’s oft-repeated words: _‘Súl suuya, anar sila, loti vanwa.’”_

Buttercup committed the words to memory. She had no idea what they meant, and some undefinable spark in Thranduil’s eyes told her not to ask. 

Bard answered before she could ask. “Braed,” he said shortly. “That is all.”

She bowed to the three respectfully, an apology of sorts for her abrupt manner. “The armies are coming. Their primary aim will be to claim Erebor as a stronghold for the enemy. Believe me mad if you will, but please take precautions. Oh, and Thorin won’t be trading for the Arkenstone. Don’t bother. He’s still gold-mad. I’ll shock him free of it, but really, this isn’t time to be lugging treasure out of the mountain.”

With that, she escaped, Westley silently following. “I thought you were staying with Bard,” she said, tossing him a questioning glance as they reemerged into Dale’s crumbled street. 

“First, I have a task for you,” he said, lips curving.

Why was it that expression made her want to hang her head? “Oh?”

One black-gloved finger pointed at her nose as he told her what he wished of her.

“But—”

The finger lifted.

She rolled her eyes.

The finger returned to pointing position. He repeated his…request.

With a growl of pure frustration, Buttercup stomped away, knowing herself trapped. Her life was turning into one fantastically humiliating event after another. The lesson here: be careful what you share with a pirate.

OoOoOo

So it was with ill grace that when her stolen kiss ended—one that lingered the barest heartbeat longer than the first—a brilliantly red-faced Buttercup mumbled something to a shocked-sane Thorin, thrust the pirate-mandated courting gift in the dwarf’s hands—a wondrously tasty sandwich of rye and mutton topped with cheese and just the right kind of mustard—and fled…or attempted to, rather.

Confounded dwarf. Why could he not be befuddled by that delicious, hair curling kis—Ahem. _Dragon-sickness,_ a part of her snapped. _Befuddled because of the dragon-sickness! You, Buttercup Baggins, had better start behaving. You, bad hobbit, are becoming a…_ That part of her looked both ways furtively before leaning in closer to whisper… _hussy._

Buttercup gasped in outrage at herself, but it morphed into a humiliated little whimper as Thorin’s fist reeled her back to him by the fabric above the seat of her pants—this time, she hadn’t had the time or desire to bother with borrowing a dress. Then with typical, blasted Thorin-ness, he oozed this potent combination of majesty and demand from his pores like others would common sweat. He didn’t have to open his mouth. His glare was of itself a big ol’ question mark. 

The dratted dwarf. It was entirely unfair, she sniffed. 

Instead of answering, she zipped her lips. _No, sir. No answers coming from here._ Too embarrassing. He could throw her from the ramparts. He could threaten her with the ax from from Morgoth’s pit. He could—

“You are no male,” Thorin rasped. His chest and body swelled in size quite impressively. _(Sigh.) “Mistress_ Baggins,” Thorin snapped. “Explain yourself.”

“Do I have to?” escaped from her lips without her consent, and she slapped a mortified hand over them. _The idea is to **impress** Thorin, you nitwit! Not convince him you’re the reigning humperdink of the world!_

Then her idiot mouth ran away like a dog escaping its yard for the first time, pretty much ensuring that was _exactly_ what any sane person would think. “You don’t like roasted mutton with onion and cheese?” A high pitched, nervous giggle. 

His eyes hardened. He didn’t so much as glance at the sandwich in his left hand.

“I only took the Arkenstone to try to save you,” she babbled on. “And really, it’s a good thing I did, because you see, when I _did_ return it to you, you did not come out of the sickness. I’ve been trying to reach you, but buckets of icy water, pelted apples, and grand chases through the treasury didn’t work. The kiss pretty much did the trick.” Another terribly shrill giggle had a part of her wishing to bury her face in her hands.

Instead, it seemed she was not done sufficiently digging her own grave, for surely she was going to die of mortification. “And the kiss… I mean, I am just a simple lass…er, hobbit, and you are very… Ahem. What I mean is, I’m terribly sorry I was so forward, but really it is your fault. You cannot just stand there exuding that—”

His lifted hand managed to cork her mouth, a feat every fiber of her being had not been able to achieve. _See that,_ a part of her marveled. _He is a hero._ Saving her from herself. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, staring at her feet. Then she winced. Why, the blond curls on her feet were _dirty._ When had good hygiene become so unimportant to her?

_Mirkwood,_ the rest of her provided with a heavenward glance. 

That, she could accept as valid. 

A loud clang jerked her head up. Thorin faced partially away, his broad shoulders taut and jaw clenched. He’d hurled his crown from him, and as she watched, he ripped each scrap of gold from his body, dropping it underfoot…with the sandwich he must have discarded in similar fashion.

A pang of disappointment, a foolish little punch of hurt. For hobbits, food always expressed affection. Sometimes courtship—usually in the form of a picnic—and at times the simple gift of hospitality to friends and acquaintances. To throw a food gift away was to throw the offered friendship—or courtship—away. 

Not that Thorin knew that. Not that he’d care. 

Her belly chose that moment to grumble. She sniffled. Then her eyes narrowed on the abused and neglected sandwich. Well, if _he_ didn’t want it, she sure did. Her body might have eaten yesterday—the true yesterday—but her hobbit self had gone over a month without a bite. 

It shocked her to realize it. Why, what if she forgot what food tasted like? Could that happen? 

_Not today, it isn’t._ She scooped up the sandwich—it was big enough to require _both_ hands, she thrilled with a happy little hip shake—and took a too-big bite out of one end. 

Instant euphoria. Not on a par with kissing Thorin, but a hobbit who was stuck in a trying situation took what she could get. Buttercup moaned as the taste of mutton, onion, sharp cheese, and the peculiar mustard the elves created combined like a symphony of culinary perfection.

“Was not that mine?”

She paused mid-chew. Her eyes flew open. Instead of grumpy Thorin or self-castigating Thorin, she found herself under scrutiny by a baggy-eyed yet mildly amused Thorin. Where, oh where, had _he_ been hiding, she wondered as she carefully finished awkwardly masticating her overflowing mouthful. After swallowing painfully, her eyes bulging as the stuff tried to lodge in her throat, she answered.

Or intended to, but the rest of her dwarves (minus Nori on watch) appeared, Dwalin at their helm. They approached tentatively, as if uncertain of Thorin’s mood, but when they saw the faint smirk upon their king’s lips they cheered and rushed forward. 

“Uncle!” Kíli crowed while Fíli’s cheeks looked near to splitting with his grin. Dwalin’s shoulders descended from ear-level, and Balin exhaled gustily. Almost all of them had crumbs from their own meals in their beards, and Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur continued to nibble on theirs as the rest of the Company expressed their joy at seeing Thorin hale.

The relieved reunion wound down after a few minutes. That was when Kíli’s finger stabbed in her direction. “Why is your sandwich so much bigger?”

Buttercup, having gnawed off another sizable hunk, used the sandwich to point at his uncle in explanation. She gave another hip shimmy at the flavor, humming happily. 

“I believe,” Thorin drawled, “that was to be mine.”

Around a mouthful, moved to defend herself despite how uncouth she was behaving, she managed, “Wou ‘ropped it. Wou showed no r’spect ‘o it.” She sniffed. 

Bofur snickered.

Kíli stared at his uncle for a moment, then turned to Buttercup. “Why is his bigger?”

Again, she indicated his uncle with her sandwich. And lied through her teeth. “King.” Her cheeks heated, but she refused to acknowledge it. She felt Thorin’s eyes upon her again.

That was when her hobbit ears detected an unhappy grumble from Thorin’s stomach. She stopped chewing. _Elves and dragons._ Dratted dwarf now had to ruin it by making her feel all guilty. 

Buttercup heaved a sigh. _Fine._ Without asking, she dropped before the hunky dwarf, rooted through his boot (ignoring his disconcerted questions and attempts to free his foot) until she found that bloody dagger she’d also become acquainted with, then she sawed the sandwich in half and silently offered him the untouched portion. 

Thorin accepted it with that blasted slow regal nod of his. (How, she wanted to know, could he do “regal” all dirty and grungy and…) “How did you know I kept that dagger there?”

She rose to her feet, shrugged as she handed him the dagger, and said, “You stabbed me with it once,” causing him to choke. “It’s okay. I got over it. The thing about living the same day over and over again? You can die a lot—no really, a _lot_ —and it doesn’t matter. Hurts, but it’s over fast enough.” She paused to take a bite and chew. Swallowed. “You should eat that. Nori will be arriving in a minute or two to tell you that Dain’s arrived, and after Dain will come Azog and his son.”

Thorin froze, sandwich an inch from his mouth. Lowering it, he said, “Repeat that.”

She looked at her sandwich. Something told her she wouldn’t get to any more of it. With a sigh, she passed it to Kíli, who scarfed it down so fast, she feared for her fingers. Then to Thorin in a falsely cheerful voice, “I’ve got a story for you.”

OoOoOo

Battle that day seemed especially gruesome.

Buttercup, positioned among the Ri brothers this day, tried to heed every command tossed at her from Dori and Nori. She’d mentioned in her hasty recital of current events calling Nori ‘brother’ as well as the lessons he’d been giving her the last however-many-times-it-was-now. (She refused to count anymore. It was too distressing.) 

As soon as he’d heard it, Thorin had remanded her into the Ris’ care. The Ri brothers, she discovered, took protecting their own very, very seriously. 

Buttercup dodged a spear that flew past Ori, contorting her body to yank her sandwich-happy belly out of its path. If she was going down, she was going down _with_ the sandwich intact, thank you very much. Then she ran forward to stab an orc’s kneecaps, ruining his intention to strike at Nori while his back was turned.

At one juncture, the fighting carried her Company deeper within the midst of Dain’s dwarves. Buttercup swiped sweat from her brow and realized who stood just beyond Ori. “Bersi!” she called with relief. In the mass of blood and death, it was a pinpoint of light.

The golden-haired warrior spared her a confused glance. “At your service.” A second glance. “I’m not remembering meeting, lad.”

“Lass,” Ori, Dori and Nori corrected as one.

“Don’t mind them,” she shouted as the battle gained in decibel. “Apparently, your kinsmen from Ered Luin can’t tell a male from a female hobbit, either.”

Her dwarves grumbled unhappily, but Bersi’s deep laughter filled her ears.

It was the last cause for laughter she had for a long, long time after. The instant the elves, men and dwarves thought they had the edge on the enemy, fresh troops arrived. Buttercup wanted to cry. _How,_ howled through her brain. Nothing she’d done could account for the change, and with their addition, the ROUSes not only raced into Dale, they drove all the people into screaming retreat. If not for Thranduil’s elves and their quick defense, the women, children, and elderly of Dale would have perished.

Instead, the elves formed a golden shield with their own bodies. It was a sight that inspired even as it brought heartbreak. Many elves fell for their heroism. 

Buttercup blanched at her first sighting of the huge rodents. The size of dogs, they rushed into the plains to join the thickest parts of the battle before she knew what was amiss. She’d heard screams. She’d known something approached, but her first sight of them caused her to swallow hard. 

The rodents’ heads came to her belly, and their blood-stained mouths were filled with long, sharp teeth. Pieces of flesh were matted to their whiskers and teeth, sending shudders through her. Buttercup screamed, instantly jumping on the nearest height—Bersi again, as fate would have it.

“Hold tight,” the dwarf shouted before swinging his mattock in an arc that sent the pick side into one and slammed three other rodents off their feet. 

A masculine shout from her right yanked her attention from the swarms of rats trying Bersi’s defenses. _Nori,_ she realized, spotting her friend. The thief recoiled uncontrollably, backpedaling with no care for the peril behind him. Only Dori’s swift intervention saved Nori from the goblins he all but trampled in his haste to escape.

_Rodent phobia,_ she remembered with new, dagger-sharp alarm. 

Then another thought, one accompanied by another big dollop of fear. Dale overrun. Was Bard dead, then? And what of Westley? 

She had to find out. “Dori, I’ll be right back,” she hollered. 

From where he’d taken up position to guard Nori, Dori’s head whipped around. The tendons upon the gray-haired dwarf’s neck stood out in stark relief, and his face turned red. “What?” he shouted over the fray. 

She kissed Bersi on the cheek, murmured “Thank you,” into his ear, and jammed on her ring. Not giving herself time to list all the reasons why this was a bad idea, she slipped from her perch and raced into the writhing sea of gray fur, stabbing all in reach with Sting. 

“Buttercup!” she heard more than one of her dwarves shout furiously.

_Perhaps,_ she mused, _it would better if I didn’t survive this._ Yes, the dwarves would forget this, too, come morning, but facing them before that happened was bound to be a loud experience. 

All kidding aside, the next hour was the stuff of nightmares. Not the gentle sort that jerked one from sleep only to laugh at the silliness of it. No, this was the sort to drive one under her bed for the rest of the night. The kind that refused to fade. That painted ghoulish figures into every shadow and infused every breath taken into one rank with encroaching evil.

Death by orc and goblin, she’d seen. Too many times, in fact. But to be eaten, mauled by these ROUSes, was no guarantee of a quick death. She came across men, elves and dwarves left half-devoured and ( _By the Valar,_ she whimpered) yet alive. She tried to fight her way to them—elves and dragons, she did!—but the tide of rodents thwarted her every attempt. All she could do was bear witness, tears leaking down her cheeks. 

It thrust her back in time to the Fell Winter, to wolves and goblins rampaging through the Shire, leaving behind fleshy bits of bone and scraps of clothing but little else. The wolves and wargs had been a part of this battle from the first, but they hadn’t stopped to feed. Not like…

She retched. Right there in the middle of a war-zone. On top of a huge rodent’s back. Only terror kept her from falling to her knees as one rat, then two, knocked into her right after. 

This was a bad idea. And confound it, she’d _lost her sandwich!_

She ceased from fighting the current, instead doing an about-face and running back to the Company. For fighting her way towards Dale for the better part of an hour, she had little to show for it. In a matter of minutes, Thorin swam into view between the taller goblin and orc bodies. 

It was Thorin she saw first, and Thorin she ran to. 

He was surrounded by dead, furry bodies mixed with the occasional goblin’s, his ax dripping fluid turned gray by the ring. Thorin kicked rodents hard enough to launch them, and to her shock, Oin swung at the airborne rats with his iron-tipped staff. The old healer never missed, and together, the two made a lethal team. 

She only hoped she didn’t ruin their stride, because there was no way she could slow her pedaling feet. Under Thorin’s ax, she raced, blessing the wretched thing for the first time, then around Thorin’s back, pivot, and she climbed him like a ladder, shaking uncontrollably. 

Thorin stiffened.

“Sorry,” she managed to squeeze out between her chattering teeth before burying her face at the base of his neck. Her knees found his hips and her arms wrapped as far around his chest as she could reach. 

“Bilb—Buttercup,” he growled, returning to his own attacks. Then louder, tossing the words over one shoulder so each one resounded deafeningly in her ear, “I have our hobbit!” 

She heard distant cheers and a couple grumbles—Dwalin and Dori, she thought—but she didn’t lift her head to check. She did coax her head to lift enough to remind Thorin, “Azog should be here soon. He always seeks you out.”

“Let him come,” Thorin said. “I will remove that filth from Arda once and for all.”

“I suspect you’ve said that before,” she said, flinching as three ROUSes snapped at her Thorin. One, he cut in twain with one drool-worthy swing of the ax. The second affixed itself to his calf by its teeth. Thorin used the butt of the ax to pry it lose before kicking it to Oin. 

The third missed him entirely. It discovered an invisible Buttercup in the way.

Razor-sharp teeth aiming to maul Thorin instead crunched down on Buttercup’s invisible foot and dragged her kicking and screaming (at the top of her lungs) from Thorin’s back. She heard Thorin yelling her name, echoed by Dori, Ori and Nori. She felt teeth tear at her flesh. Her attempts to swing Sting in such tight quarters were more than useless, and with each second, the rat tugged her deeper into its fellows’ midst. 

In the end, she died in the way she’d most feared. She was torn apart, her dwarves unable to aid her because of the blasted ring. They couldn’t find her to help her, though she knew they could hear her shrieks. 

She had time for one last, hysterical thought: Buttercup Baggins would _never_ eat meat again.


	9. Rye Whiskey

Buttercup fell in the bushes screaming at the top of her lungs. Horror gonged through her mind and heart, and she couldn’t stop shaking. She’d… She’d…

She’d been _eaten!_ Like a choice cut of ham! Or one of Barno Boffin’s prized chickens!

Arms extricated her from the bushes, arms clad in black belonging to an equally black-clad chest. _Westley._ Voices came from nearby, and softer, feminine hands tried to claim her from Westley, but she didn’t know them. Buttercup threw her arms around the pirate’s neck and refuse to let loose. He was an anchor in a swirling mass of chaos her mind could not begin to digest.

“Poor mite,” she heard a voice say.

“…dwarves’ fault,” a male said. “Exiling a little soul like that.”

“…distraught to be holding onto the madman that way…”

Buttercup shuddered, burying her face in Westley’s neck. Why would these people not leave her alone? Instead of bringing comfort, their barrage of questions and words felt like hard fingers tugging at her, demanding of her more than she could possibly give. _Save us,_ they seemed to insist of her. Need, need, need. Claw, claw, claw.

Westley must have realized his kindred were not helping. “Move along,” Westley said. “Our dear hobbit lady does not need an audience.”

“Lady?” more than one echoed. 

Movement. Westley had grown impatient waiting for them to leave, she concluded, and carried her elsewhere. For one wistful moment, she desperately wished it was Thorin holding her instead. She didn’t care if he lectured her or railed at her for getting eaten, she just wanted his strong arms to wrap around her as they had on the Carrock. 

But Thorin wasn’t here. He was roaming Erebor, locked inside his own mind by the chains of gold sickness. He would _always_ be roaming Erebor that way, a part of her warned. This day wasn’t ever ending. It would only go on and on and on…

She banished the thought as her breaths accelerated to panicked, high-pitched gasps. Her head whirled like a tween in her first party dress, and her sight dimmed threateningly. 

_It was only a rat,_ her Baggins sensibleness attempted to soothe.

The rest of her would have none of it. _Only a rat,_ it growled with such fury her Baggins side stole uneasy looks left and right as if searching for an escape route. _**Only** a **rat?**_ If the Took portion of her had its way, the Baggins side would have died of asphyxiation then and there. Only. A. Rat?

The unfamiliar men’s and women’s voices faded. Buttercup latched onto Westley’s tunic with both hands, fisting bunches of the silken material as if it alone kept her from sliding into some dark abyss. “Westley?” She barely recognized her own voice. It was reedy, high-pitched and hollow. “I believe this is what is called shock. Yes, it must be, for everything feels unreal at the moment. Perhaps with a dollop of hysteria on top.” 

Buttercup tried to focus on his face, but her eyes decided to go their own way, rushing around without alighting on much of anything. “Yes, it is shock,” she said. “And horror and fear. When they say, ‘frightened to death,’ I always assumed it an expression.” A shrill titter escaped her, one that morphed into a high-pitched whine at the end. 

Westley held her tighter against a chest much narrower than her dwarf friends’, and his neck and jaw when she managed to catch a glimpse of them were hard enough to repel arrows, one should think. _Worry,_ her Baggins self dared to comment.

The man didn’t remember her. From his perspective, she was a complete stranger, and yet he worried for her. 

A pang of guilt struck for causing such a fuss, but her Took side snarled it into the background. No logic! No polite platitudes or rules! She’d been _eaten,_ by all the hobbits in the Shire, and she deserved to have a Took-worthy emotional breakdown! 

Buttercup’s head dropped against Westley’s shoulder. _I still want Thorin,_ an inner voice whined. But if it couldn’t be Thorin, Westley was an acceptable substitute. For now. 

Westley sat on the top of a small flight of stairs, readjusting her into a comfortable position without words. Then, the man crooned and rocked her like a fauntling. 

All the reasons she should kick herself free from this hysteria raced through her head. Thorin. Her dwarves. Bard. She wished she could say love for them provided the strength for her to emerge from the inner burrow her soul was digging for itself.

It didn’t. Despair had gnawed its way— _Bad description!_ an inner voice howled, shaking a fist under her nose at her appalling choice of words—into her soul like a cave claw boring its way into the earth and setting up a nice new den. The day kept repeating, and she just didn’t know what to do about it. Things were worsening. If this last day was but a taste of what lay before her, she was done.

Buttercup Baggins was terror-stricken. This was worse than plummeting off the flimsy wooden bridge in Goblin Town. Worse than running from wargs and goblins or even facing down Azog with her Thorin defenseless behind her. 

When the orcs arrived, she was still in Dale. Westley rushed off to fight, utterly ignorant to the peril he was about to face. He left her with the women and children, and for one woolly-headed minute, she complied. 

Until she couldn’t disguise her distress from Tilda. Until she frightened Bard’s children with her trembling. _Bad hobbit,_ her Baggins self chided. _Frightening children?_

Words that should have put spine into her frame instead echoed hollowly like so much wind. She stole away in a daze. Without her guidance, her feet carried her to the elves’ provisions. Her hand reached out, and she stole an item from piles of crates and barrels. 

Then in an equal haze, belatedly putting the ring on her finger when a goblin spotted her and began to rush to her position, she stumbled to Ravenhill. There, she climbed up creaking wooden stairs within the old stone tower’s belly. Higher and higher, she climbed, ignoring the gaps in the old staircase until she reached the rampart at its crown. 

With legs dangling over the edges, she uncorked the jug of whiskey and began to messily swallow its contents down while below, more death unfurled before her eyes, leaving her colder and colder.

_Buttercup Baggins, you are in big, big trouble this time,_ her Baggins side decreed.

The rest of her agreed, shuddering with renewed vigor. Weeping and drinking, she did nothing to move from her perch. The world would have to do without Buttercup Baggins, Time-Changing Extraordinaire, this one time.

OoOoOo

Four days later—at least, she thought it had been four days—she sat on one of Dale’s walls, whiskey jug in hand, eyesight pleasantly distorted, and slurred songs escaping from her lips. A large rock hurled by a troll catapult pulverized a section of wall some ten feet from her position, but it moved her not. What more could they do? Kill her? Kill her dwarves?

Pshaw! _Been there,_ she sniffed, _Done that._

Guilt tried to rear its ugly head. _How can you sit here, Buttercup, when your friends are fighting and dying?_ She thrust it away angrily. It wasn’t her fault. Even should she change things, it wouldn’t last. 

_Do you hear that, you pesky Baggins,_ she snarled at herself. _It. Doesn’t. Last!_

The proof was displayed for her each day. As was the fact that not intervening did not return events to what they’d been that first time. She should know—she’d sat from different heights these last few days, drinking and watching with growing hopelessness. Without her, the ROUSes still arrived. The battle changed—Azog arriving from different directions, goblins scaling the Lonely Mountain to hit Dain’s dwarves on their backsides, and different people died.

Thorin was always the target. He and his sister-sons. But the Elvenking was singled out, too. The night before had been filled with elvish laments for their slain king, and Legolas had stumbled around with such a wounded expression that Buttercup had gone in search of another jug of whiskey. 

Buttercup could not stop drinking herself into oblivion. That pestering Baggins side kept nagging at her to do something, but she couldn’t. Terror had her locked within herself. She was deathly afraid of the ROUSes. She wouldn’t mind dying by troll catapult. She didn’t much mind dying by sword or ax. 

But she couldn’t handle being eaten alive again. Her own screams echoed through her ears, underscored by Thorin’s horrified shouts. Doubtless Buttercup-bits had become visible to him as…

She swallowed bile. 

Besides, if events changed with no rhyme or reason, what did it matter, a new knot of bitterness asked. The rotund blob of animus sat there in the smial of her heart like an unwelcome visitor, and she did not know quite how to oust it. Or even if she wanted to. 

Buttercup shuddered, then thrust all thoughts of what she _did not wish to handle_ from her mind. Now. Where was she?

With a confused little frown, she searched for the next lyrics to the song she’d been singing. Failing to locate them within her sloshing memory—or even remember what it was she’d sung about—she gamely chose a new one. 

_“There lived a dwarf long ago,”_ she warbled. _“Blue eyed, handsome as day:_  
      _And it is said of Thorin_  
 _All hearts owed him sway.”_

Below her, men in the heat of battle shied away. Orcs and goblins, too, she noted with a Lobelia-worthy cackle. Why, they thought the area haunted. 

Whiskey. She took a healthy swig. It was wonderful stuff. And provided new lyrics:

_“I’ll eat when I’m hungry,_  
      _I’ll drink when I’m dry;_  
 _If the hard times don’t kill me,_  
      _I’ll live till I die.”_

A deep breath, another healthy swig, and she mopped up the liquid spilling down her cheek with her tunic sleeve. _Bilbo,_ she thought with desperate longing, _would murder me for what I’ve done to his clothes._

But that was a painful thought. That, too, she kicked from her with a solid mental foot.

_“Rye whiskey, rye whiskey,_  
     Rye whiskey, I cry,  
If you don’t give me rye whiskey,  
     I surely will die. 

_“I’ll tune up my fiddle,_  
     And I’ll rosin my bow,  
I’ll make myself welcome,  
     Wherever I go.” 

“Buttercup Baggins!” a familiar voice thundered. A sweaty Gandalf appeared below her, and his staff arced through the air to her right. In search of her, she thought, taking another big gulp of fiery comfort. Guilt again burbled up with in breast, but she was having none of it. Her Took side metaphorically unsheathed Sting and went after it, the blade zipping around with a speed Buttercup had never managed. 

She was suitably impressed. _Hic._ And took another drink.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed, and his head tilted to better listen, she supposed. “What has happened?” Gandalf murmured.

She thought it was self-directed, but she gamely told him, “I’s eaten ‘live.” Why, good heavens, was that slurring, drunkard herself? Shame flared, but then she shrugged. If she was now a drunkard, she’d be the best confounded drunk in the Shire.

_Or,_ her new cynicism proclaimed, _the only drunkard in the world so far as I’m likely to experience it from now on._ Given recent events, returning to the Shire seemed unlikely. 

Her lips pouted. Knobby bunions, she wanted to see Bag End. To return and punch Lobelia in the nose the next time she tried to steal Bilbo and Buttercup’s good silver. Instead, she was stuck. Here. Now. For no reason she could see.

Gandalf’s eyes seemed to find her. It was eerily uncanny, and she imbibed again. _Wizards,_ a part of her sniffed. Always poking at things best left alone.

“Come down from there,” he said, his free hand finding his hip. His head tilted—he was keeping an eye on the fighting nearby. “My dear friend, you must talk to me.” _(Must I?)_ “This is not like you at all.”

Harrumph. _That_ was up for debate.

With no warning, a group of orcs rounded a corner and rushed at the wizard. Gandalf drew Glamdring—one hand with sword, the other with staff—and faced them. 

That was when a filament of life returned to Buttercup’s heart. Berating herself up one side and down the other, she clumsily clambered down, muttering, “’s foolish, you know… _hic!_ Not change-sh a thing… _hic!_ Gunna die again.” Then she brightened. “New shupply of whishkey.”

An encouraging thought, for her jug was almost gone. 

So it was a tipsy Buttercup who drew her sword—by Durin, a part of her growled, how did it get stuck in the sheath? Then she realized her error and blinked stupidly. _Grab the hilt…hic!…not sheath._ She giggled wildly at her own foolishness.

Sting slid from its scabbard smooth as an elf gliding through a dance. She’d seen that once… _hic!_ In th’ Shire. She shook her head in tragedy. She’d never see it again. She didn’t think she could convince Thranduil to hold a dance… _hic!_ …in the middle of a battle.

A clang jerked her from her musings. _Oh, yesh. Gand’lf._ She firmed her shoulders. Tightened her grip on her sword. Then she hurried over and awkwardly poked at his foes with her sword.

Until Gandalf’s staff connected with her skull. That was pretty much that.

OoOoOo

Even whiskey could not dull the pain forever, Buttercup discovered. It soured in her mouth daily as more and more of her friends died. Westley. Legolas and Tauriel. No matter that Buttercup touched nothing, the Battle of Five Armies turned darker and bloodier until a more apt moniker, she suspected guiltily, was the Massacre of Three Armies.

She tried to venture once more into the fray, but each time the battle began, her heart failed her. Her efforts were pathetic at best, and the staunch determination that had characterized her before was nowhere to be found. 

When the rats appeared, she ran. Well, she ran but for the one time she fainted right under Thorin’s nose. (It made her grateful for time’s maniacal looping. That story would go with her to the grave. As many times as it took until she stayed there, that is.)

Unable to watch or fight, unable to pull herself from her despair, she took to hiding in Erebor. Scaling the mountain to the ramparts without a rope had been lethal the first five or six times, but after much repetition, Buttercup learned how to scramble up the mountain’s side with relative ease. From there, she had all of Erebor to distract her.

She followed each dwarf around in turn, hanging on each of their words with tears streaming down her cheeks. She tailed Ori as he explored Erebor’s library in an attempt to hide from the seething tempers of his friends as they bickered about defying Thorin and rushing to join Dain. She explored other regions alone, discovering more of the silver fountains Thorin’s grandfather had been famed for commissioning. (She gleefully bathed in each, delighting in feeling clean.)

Through it all, the ring remained on her finger, and guilt hung about her neck like a weighted noose. Until one day, she could take it no more. Death did not spare her. Life had turned dark and grim. She was just a _hobbit,_ she longed to shout at Eru and the Valar—and she finally did it, too, screaming at the top of her lungs with all the anguish she felt. 

It startled her dwarves something fierce, though they were quick to figure out she was there. Dori tried to coax her into sight, but she took off, unable to face them. 

She’d failed them. She’d failed herself. She’d never felt less worthy to be numbered among them. 

That is, until her misery finally goaded her into the one action she’d been avoiding.

OoOoOo

The day was like every one before it. It was growing difficult to remember what it was to have a tomorrow where all was new. Where hope lurked with each sunrise and life’s bumps were offset by the sense that each day was a fresh page. A chance to start again and create something different.

Buttercup quietly whispered thanks to Westley for helping her from the bush—she was more eager to escape it now than ever, for she’d spent weeks just lying there—and for the first time in too long, she ran to Erebor. All her promises had fallen by the wayside, broken to bits. No courtship. No gifts. No daily chats with Westley. No kisses and no calling the Ri brothers “Brother” because she knew how they’d take it and she desperately wanted to be included in their family circle.

She scaled the mountain to the balcony and rushed past Nori without caring about being silent. Her feet slapped against cold stone floor, drawing eyes. “Bilbo?” she heard Kíli ask in a hush, his face alarmed. 

Buttercup didn’t stop. To the treasury, she ran, and through piles of glittering gems, coins, and sharp-edged jewelry. Thorin stared suspiciously, his body taut, but Buttercup had reached the end of reasoning. With a cry of despair, she threw herself at him. Her arms wrapped around his chest, her knees buckled, and she sagged, raw cries escaping her lips and giving voice to all the anguish within her. It was the sound of a lost soul, one bereft of hope or shorn of all reason to go on. 

She didn’t care if he killed her. She only wished it would be permanent. Buttercup could not keep watching helplessly as the world contorted itself to murder her loved ones in new ways. 

Voices. Dori’s. Bofur’s. Balin’s. Each shouted and pleaded with urgency, and heavy footfalls set treasure to jingling like a town full of fauntlings playing with brass bells. 

The dwarves’ words were lost to her, so much noise drowned out by her own wrenching cries. 

But then Thorin’s arms wrapped around her. Gingerly. Tentatively. He lowered himself to a seat. She lost her grip and slipped from his arms to land on his lap. There, she lay with arms wrapped around his calf, her cheek to his thigh. There, she sobbed.

A grunt, and Thorin’s fingers raced over her hands insistently. He all but tore the ring from her finger and threw it away to be lost among the wealth of gold around them. Oin’s gentler hands followed, and the old healer’s questions peppered her. 

She didn’t care. She couldn’t understand the words. She clutched Thorin’s calf and keened.

Then Thorin…left. They all left, all but Dori, who held her in a tight embrace and rocked her like a child. She clutched Dori’s tunic as she had Thorin’s knee, screaming inside with the feeling of utter abandonment. Thorin _left._

It was foolish and nonsensical. She knew that—Thorin went to war to protect his people, by the Shire—but she could not pull herself together enough to accept it. He was gone, and she felt more bereft than before. 

But Thorin returned. They all did, smelling of sweat, pitch and blood. Thorin reclaimed her from Dori and sat as they had before he’d left, his voice carrying a hollow note to it. Buttercup looped arms around his knee, body shuddering with relief that he was back. He didn’t depart again. Thorin’s hand combed through her curls as his body rumbled with words that sounded much like commands—war yet demanded his attention—but he did not leave.

A big palm found her back. Dori. Sweet Dori, who’d time and again during their quest pulled her onto his back to carry her through danger.   
At one point, she thought she heard Gandalf, too, but that couldn’t be. And…Thranduil? Thorin said something harshly that she didn’t catch, and the liquid voice went away. 

Perhaps, she mused in the deepest recesses of her mind, she had truly broken. 

The grief festering in her heart kept her sobbing even when her voice gave out. The Company camped around her, and as her dry, itchy eyes permitted sight of them, she realized not a one wasn’t worried…about _her._ Despite the chaos occurring outside their mountain. Dwalin, she realized, was absent, but she knew he’d been there. Fíli, too. 

As coherence returned, she hid her face in Thorin’s knee. His hand stilled upon her head. “Do you wish me to send them away?” he asked in a voice gravelly with concern. So gentle, it was, and so unlike Thorin’s normal self. Underneath, there was a note of fury, but that was minor and she didn’t believe it directed her way. 

_Yet,_ a part of her mourned. When it did turn her way, it would be deserved. She’d been a coward. She’d given up, and she still didn’t feel up to facing the world ever again.

“Yes,” she managed, the word rasping from her pained throat and ending with a watery hiccup. 

Thorin must have donned his Glare of Imminent Doom, for though it sounded reluctant, the rest of her dwarves departed, many patting her before doing so. 

It made her feel all the more wretched for failing them. Elves and dragons, she loved these dwarves. 

When they’d gone, Thorin scooped her up to his chest and stood. He didn’t say where they were going, and she didn’t ask. “Leave Bifur and Gloin to guard the treasury,” he said when the cadence of his footsteps changed from a slogging jangle to a simple tread of boot on stone. 

“Aye,” came Dwalin’s voice. “It’ll be done. I don’t trust any of the men or elves not to try something while they’re in our mountain.” A big hand ruffled through her hair with rough affection. “Hard to believe we had a lass with us all this time.”

Beneath her hear, she felt more than heard Thorin’s rumble of agreement.

Thorin left that area, his steps measured and even. Through gritty eyes, she marked his progress, recognizing the ornately decorated hallways and passages from her explorations. 

He stopped at one of the silver fountains, one farther away from Erebor’s gates than the rest. There, he seated himself on the wide silver-colored lip with his back to the silver plaque that made up its back end. On the ornate panel—it reached up to the ceiling far above them—water splashed from small cup to cup, making the fountain sing. Behind the musical waterfall it created, depictions of dwarves at work could be seen. Miners. Weavers. 

It was an ode to Erebor’s citizens, she’d thought upon first discovering it. Her common people, and she’d thought it an amazing glimpse of who Thror must have been before the sickness claimed him.

Once seated, Thorin rubbed her back in soothing circles. “You will need to speak with me,” he said at last. Then with deliberate lightness, he said, “Bilbo cannot be your name.”

From somewhere inside, a brief snort welled up, one that had her clutching his shirt, for she feared more tears would hunt it down and destroy it. “My brother’s name,” she rasped. 

Thorin reached to one side. “Thank you, Dori. Remain by the door, if you would, and keep others out. I’ll tell you when she’d ready to see you.”

“Aye, Thorin. I’d brew some chamomile, but our supplies have run out.”

“She’ll be fine, my friend.” 

Footsteps retreated. How had she missed Dori’s arrival? The question seemed trivial. She let it fade, instead burying her nose into Thorin’s shirt and breathing in. He was rank from battle on top of days laboring in the treasury under the unforgiving whip of dragon-sickness, but he smelled of Thorin. That alone was a balm to her soul. 

Thorin next leaned towards the fountain, and she heard the slosh of water. A moment later, an ornate gold chalice was pressed to her lips. Crusted with rubies, diamonds, and sapphires, she’d never imagined drinking from something so extravagant. Why, Lobelia would have kittens!

The water tasted sublime. The icy temperature soothed her raw throat. She drank it so fast, she choked, and Thorin removed the chalice, setting it beside them on the fountain’s lip. 

He cuddled her closer, waiting. She wasn’t certain for what. Why was he being so kind? Why wasn’t he shouting at her for deceiving him? Or for the Arkenstone? 

“We will lose Erebor,” he said at last. “We have been driven within the mountain. Bard’s men and Thranduil’s elves hold the gates, but it cannot last forever. Dain and his warriors were eradicated.”

Her brow creased. Her head lifted until she could look upon him. Elves and dragons, he looked guilt-stricken—no, _devastated_ —and he shouldn’t be. The guilt was not his. 

It was hers. She’d known…and done nothing.

“You should be with them,” she said, forcing her fingers to uncurl from about his tunic. 

“You think one of my Company so unimportant?” he asked, his eyes intent, his face haggard. He shook his head. “One dwarf will not win this day.” His voice turned hoarse. “I would have peace between us before we meet our end. I have wronged you, and I would make it right.”

That fast, tears burst from her eyes. “It’s _my fault,”_ she wailed, hiding her face against his chest. “I failed you. I failed all of you.”

Thorin growled. “You, Mistress Baggins, have done nothing but sacrifice for us since you chased after us not far from Hobbiton. This is not your fault.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, her face crumpling even as she straightened. Her belly muscles protested from the abuse of the day. _Better that than rats,_ a part of her contributed, and she shuddered, her eyes squeezing shut. “You have no idea what’s happened or what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me,” he said abruptly. “You are my friend, Bilb—” Then gentler, “What is your name?”

“Buttercup,” she said, opening her eyes. Buttercup slumped against him, too tired to support herself for longer. “I’m Bilbo’s younger sister.”

He growled. “Gandalf knew of this?”

“He asked Bilbo to join you, but when your Company met in my smial, Gandalf knew it was me. Cutting my hair and stealing my brother’s clothes only went so far.”

Another low growl. “Buttercup, then,” he said with the air of one committing a name to memory. “Yes,” he said to whatever he read on her face, “I am angry. I am furious with Gandalf for hiding the truth from us. We never would have sent you to spy for us or permitted you to take such risks if we’d known.”

“Which is why we said nothing,” she confessed heavily. “I needed to be with you.” Then as heat began to climb into her cheeks at the inadvertent slip, she hastened to add, “All of you. The Company…you’re my family, Thorin.”

“And what will your brother have to say about this? Did he know of your intention?” His face hardened. “He didn’t. You left him to worry.”

A sigh. “I did.” Her eyes darted away.

Thorin’s following sigh was much more impressive than any she could achieve, lifting his chest a couple inches at least. (Elves and dragons, she would never tire of watching that.) “Tell me,” he said in a calmer voice. “This crime you believe you have committed. Tell me.”

The retelling was no less painful than reliving it. With her face buried in his chest, _hiding,_ she told her king the full of it. She spared herself nothing. She told him of the endless loop of days. Of her pitiful attempts to oust him from dragon-sickness and her embarrassing attempts to woo him. She told him of his death and that of his nephews, Bofur’s unexplained demise, and the changes to the time line.

By the time she reached the end, confessing her terror of the giant rodents and her attempts to hide from the memories and the guilt of abandoning her friends, she could only whisper. The words were too shameful for more. She suspected they would not have emerged at all if Thorin hadn’t had an almost painfully tight grip on her. 

When she was done, Thorin ran fingers through her hair, causing her to jerk back with huge eyes. “You’re supposed to hate me now.”

“Am I?” he said, a glimmer of humor lighting his eyes. Then more somberly, he said, “Buttercup Baggins, you won yourself a place among us long ago. None of us would fault you for faltering.”

“You…” She swallowed the squeak. “You believe me?”

“I believe enough to grasp hold of the hope you offer.”

“Hope?” She ended on a high note.

Thorin rose and set her down on the fountain’s lip, her back against where his had been. The metalwork, she discovered, had absorbed his body’s heat and radiated it back pleasantly. 

“You have not dealt us falsely,” he said in a harsh voice. “I see no reason to doubt you now. Aye, hope. For there is none for us _this_ day.” He pivoted, his bearing turning purposeful. Authoritative. “Dori!” he called, and Buttercup spotted her gray-haired friend haunting the archway into the room—whatever it might have been, for it was bare of any furnishing or other hints as to its identity.

Dori straightened. 

“Summon the Company,” Thorin commanded. “All of them. Tell Gandalf, Bard and the Elvenking we must meet immediately. I have information that shines light on our current predicament.”

Dori turned to go.

“Oh, and Dori?”

He looked back.

“Among the men is a man in black fond of wearing a mask over his eyes. If he lives, bring him, too. He is called Westley.”

Dori bowed and rushed off.

Thorin faced Buttercup, and his eyes softened. “I know you,” he said quietly. “You have proven your mettle time and again.” At her objection, he lifted a palm. “You failed because you gave up hope. You struggled alone. That ends this night.” Then a sudden urgency claimed him. “What time did you say ended this day for you?”

“Ten o’ five,” she said.

Thorin’s eyebrows slammed together over his nose, and his chin dipped as it did every time he confronted a new challenge or thought. “We have but three hours left,” he murmured. “Perhaps a bit more.”

“For what?” she asked, dragging her legs over to dangle off the exterior edge of the fountain. With arms propping up her torso, she eyed Thorin from beneath her curly bangs. 

Thorin smiled. The smile that always, always, always meant trouble. The one her Took side never failed to purr and roll over like a decadent cat upon seeing. 

“To turn the tables. To rewrite this day and get some answers.”

How, she wondered, did he imagine he was going to do all that?

OoOoOo

They came. At the King under the Mountain’s command, they all came, though Buttercup could see impatience upon Thranduil’s face and disbelief on Gandalf’s.

The Company surrounded her without hesitation, and she found herself handed among them, each having a murmured word of encouragement or a soft hug to deliver.

Except Dwalin. He leaned down until their foreheads almost touched and whispered, “You but tell me which of the men harmed you, and he’ll find himself outside the mountain faster than an elf could break his word.” A grunt, a nod while she gaped, and he stomped to plant himself by Thorin’s side. 

Thorin lifted one eyebrow at his friend before meeting her gaze. A silent message— _You thought they would not care for you?_

She managed a tiny shrug.

In the end, she sat on that fountain between Dori and Bofur. Nori and Ori sat by Dori’s feet, and Bifur sat on Bofur’s opposite side. The rest of the Company arrayed themselves behind Thorin, Fíli and Kíli a step behind and to either side. _A show of support,_ she deduced. 

“What is the meaning of this, Thorin?” Gandalf said as the last invited members of the party arrived—Westley and Bard with his son, Bain. 

Thorin stepped to the center of the room, and though dirty and tired, Buttercup thought he’d never looked more kingly. “I ask that you listen. I will repeat events as they were recited to me.”

He went into her story. At the beginning, Gandalf, Bard, and Thranduil made as if to leave, disgust and impatience written on their faces. It was then Thorin cocked an eyebrow at Buttercup.

With a minute nod, she said, “You, Bard, told me to tell you ‘Braed’. Nothing else, only that one …name, I suppose. Gandalf, you told me to inform you that you had been held in Dol Guldur as a prisoner.” An apologetic glance towards Thorin. “You also had news of Thrain’s demise.” 

Thorin tensed, but Fili leaned casually to one side until their arms brushed. Thorin relaxed, though a glance beneath his brows told Buttercup they’d be having words about her withholding the information later. 

_Fair enough._ Buttercup’s focus moved on to Thranduil, whose green eyes blazed with startling intensity.

“And myself, Mistress Baggins?” the elf asked. 

She repeated his wife’s phrase, and the reaction from him was instant. His brilliant eyes speared towards Thorin. “Continue,” he commanded in clipped tones.

Thorin continued.

Buttercup sensed when Westley’s scrutiny found her, but the longer the tale continued, the more he seemed to sink into his own mind. He stood with legs shoulder-width apart, one hand to his chin and eyes narrowed. 

At the end, it was Westley who broke the silence while many looked among each other and to Buttercup. “It appears your companion is not the only soul remembering.”

“What?” Buttercup jerked upright only to gasp as belly muscles seized. Bofur got his arm around her before Dori and smiled his gamine smile when Dori huffed in annoyance. 

“You are not the only one,” Westley repeated.

“You couldn’t be,” Thorin agreed gently, his attention on her. 

Wait. He’d come to that conclusion, too, and hadn’t told her? She frowned, arms folding before her chest and her expression one of _wait-till-I-get-you-alone-mister._

Thorin smirked. The humperdink. 

“Who, then?” Bard asked, looking to his compatriots.

“It would have to be an enemy,” Gandalf murmured, the fingers of one hand tapping where they rested around the middle of his staff.

“Agreed.” Thorin and Thranduil both grimaced to find themselves in such accord, and Buttercup’s lips curved upward in her first true smile in what felt a lifetime. 

“We’ll need to find out who it is,” Fíli said, his gaze upon his uncle. “How are we to do that when none of us will remember today?”

“She will,” Thranduil said, and Buttercup inched deeper into Bofur’s hold and the so very _possessive_ look in his eyes. It wasn’t lust or desire. More as if she held an item in her hand that he valued above all others. 

“Many of his elves died before we opened the gates enough to permit them to retreat,” Dori murmured.

_Oh._

“Here is what we will do,” Thorin said. “We will work out a plan of action which will permit Mistress Baggins to give us each the information we need swiftly come morning. Every morning until this has ended.”

After throwing an apologetic look Buttercup’s way, Dwalin said, “Thorin, she’s not going to be much use to us if she’s eaten by rats or slaughtered by orcs. We can’t keep sending her to die.”

A dozen hard-faced, bearded dwarves nodded in full agreement. Bofur’s arm tightened around her.

“I had not intended to do so,” Thorin rebuked mildly. “She will give her instructions to us each day before retreating into the mountain.” Speaking as if to her alone, Thorin said, “You will wake me. I will give you words to tell me that I promise will gain my full compliance. From there, here is what you will do…”

Thorin continued with his plan, the rest contributing as ideas occurred to them. Sooner than Buttercup liked, time neared its end.

As 10:05 approached, for the first time in too long, hope dug its roots into her heart. She wasn’t alone. 

Yet as the minutes ticked, she could not help shivering. Fear of losing this sense of belonging stole the very air from her lungs. 

Thorin ordered everyone else out when only minutes remained. Everyone but himself and the Company. He squatted before her, his chin lifted and expression one of anticipation and challenge. “Remember what we told you,” he encouraged her, one finger sliding beneath her chin to keep her from ducking her head. “You are not forsaken, Buttercup, unless you let yourself be.”

She managed a weak smile. “Do you suppose Nori will tease me again for stuffing my shorts?”

It was a lame effort at humor and all kinds of watery. For second, no one spoke. Then the entire Company burst into laughter, guffawing until tears streamed down their cheeks. 

Then the world faded, taking the happy noise with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Rye Whiskey_ is an old American folk song (public domain) that I thought perfect the instant I found it lol. The other song Buttercup begins to sing is a mangling of the _Maid of Leko_ , also public domain.


	10. Bootcamp: Nori-Style

The next morning, when Westley arrived, Buttercup was ready. “Stop that horse!” she cried, flapping arms at the pirate. “We’ll need him!” 

Elves and dragons, she felt…herself. Fear lurked in the recesses of her mind, but after the night before, it couldn’t bite down with the potency it had prior. Thorin, Westley, and the others had hashed out a plan. A workable one, she hoped. As her king had said, she wasn’t alone. When she remembered the feel of being buried in his arms… Well, she knew she’d do anything for him. Even if that moment never returned.

Westley chased after the horse, arms spread to either side to corral the mischievous thing. Buttercup had no idea who the beast belonged to, but they needed him. From here on out, the bay was hers. _Or Westley’s, rather._ Buttercup could not hope to control the big beast.

Once Westley had hold of the horse’s bridle, he led it to the bushes. The wretched creature had the nerve to nicker softly at the man, giving him doe eyes. But then behind Westley’s back, it bared its teeth, laughing at her. _So that’s the way it is, hmm?_

“Do you mean to imply this animal belongs to you?” Westley asked part doubtfully, part chiding. 

“No,” she huffed. “Of course not. I’d probably break my neck trying to ride him.”

“Her,” Westley corrected.

Huh. She glared at the mare. Where, she wanted to know, was the unity of gender? _Traitor,_ she thought at the horse. To which the horse bared her teeth again, her tail doing this cocky little swish. 

Buttercup smiled sweetly. “We’ll need _it.”_

The horse snorted, eyes baleful. 

Buttercup abandoned her attempts to further needle the beast. To Westley, she said, “Bear with me. We will need the horse…or you will, rather. I’m not crazy, and yes, I know who you are. You are Westley, also known as the Dread Pirate Roberts. You told me to tell you that you ventured off to seek your fortune because your love— _who,_ I might add, you left nameless—” She narrowed eyes in irritation. “…deserves better than poverty.”

He stood stock still, eyes unblinking within his mask. “How? What do you know of my Buttercup?” he asked sharply. One black-gloved hand slapped about the hilt of his ludicrous sword.

Her eyebrows flew upwards. _Buttercup?_ She wondered if that happenstance—that his love and Buttercup shared a name—was why he’d been so kind from the beginning. “That’s her name? All this time, you never told me.”

“We just met,” he said, unappeased. 

“No, we haven’t.”

“Yes, I’m sure this is the first time we’ve spoken.” Then as if unable to contain himself, he added in a heated voice, “Are you a witch? I have to tell you, I do not appreciate—”

“Westley. My name, too, is Buttercup. No, I’m not making that up,” she threw in, cutting off the accusation she knew had to be coming. “You never told me your love’s name before—which, by the way, was poor planning on your part, but we’ll let that go. For now.” Feeling ridiculous arguing up at the man from the bushes, she attempted to make herself as helpless and harmless to his sight as possible. “If I promise to tell you everything, will you please get me out of these bushes?”

His eyes narrowed, one hand yet upon the hilt of his sword, the other latched to the horse’s bridle. “Buttercup.”

She nodded emphatically. “Truly. When we reach Gandalf, he’ll confirm it.”

“Gandalf.”

“The wizard. Old man with the pointed hat, gray robes and long beard?” She gave up and switched direction. She squirmed within the bush. Then in a small voice, “Please don’t leave me stuck in here, Westley.”

“You really cannot extricate yourself?” His lips twitched, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

She resigned herself to a life of embarrassment. “No.”

OoOoOo

Minutes later, the horse trotted toward the Lord’s Hall at Westley’s urging, the sharp clop of its hooves echoing off of Dale’s streets and buildings. Seated ladylike before Westley on the horse’s bare back, she gave the pirate the quickest summary of recent events so far. (Perhaps she was getting better at this, she thought hopefully. Though of all the skills to hone, this had to be the most useless, current events aside.)

“Let me see if I have this straight. You wish to change the course of an entire battle with yourself and me—”

“Don’t forget everyone else,” she said as they passed a number of curious elves and men. “I don’t expect us to single-handedly hold back the forces of evil.”

“No, but you do expect to pinpoint one or two souls out of how many thousand?”

“Um. Probably at least three,” she hazarded to guess.

“Right, _three thousand_ orcs and goblins, and among them we must locate an unknown number who are able to recall this repeating day of yours. It cannot be done.”

“You said it could be,” she objected. “Last night.”

“Unless we can move about unseen…” he began.

Oh. Perhaps she’d patted herself on the back too soon. That was a glaringly foolish omission. _Bother._ Her penchant had ever been to keep the ring a secret from all but the Company. Foolish, but sharing its existence with outsiders felt…wrong. After a furtive look around, she told him, “I have a magical ring that turns me invisible.”

He stared at her hard. “That would change things,” he conceded. 

Good. Good. Ahem. Before her courage failed her, she forced herself to say the words she’d been dreading. Her cheeks heated, but she told him. “I must also tell you the status of my courtship efforts.”

Westley’s eyes flared, and his head jerked. In a flash, his attention was off the street and clapped onto her. “This grows more interesting by the minute.”

“Embarrassing,” she corrected with an inner sigh. “The word you want is ‘embarrassing’.”

Oh, and confound it, they were almost to their destination even with the horse slowed by the crowded square. With a bracing inhale, Buttercup dutifully informed the pirate of her fumbling attempts to woo Thorin. She refused to break her word to him any longer.

“So you promised to report to me, did you?” A wicked glint appeared in his eyes.

“Westley,” she said. “We have bigger problems.”

He seemed bent upon focusing on her never-to-be romance. “Your sole gift to your king has been a sandwich?” He clucked his tongue.

She fidgeted under his stare. “They were hungry,” she defended. “Food is important to hobbits.”

“But not exclusive to courtship,” he all but challenged her to deny.

Buttercup’s tongue poked the inner pocket of one cheek. Her eyes slid away. 

“No,” he said without a doubt. 

“We really have more important things to discuss,” she tried with a hint of desperation. Confound the man, where were his priorities?

_Foolish question. True love._ If there was one thing that jerked on Westley’s leash, love was it, and no doubt. She said more seriously, “Lives, Westley. Focus on the big picture.“

He tapped her nose. “True love,” he countered. 

“Time!” she all but begged. “I don’t have time for this.”

“So,” he continued, unmoved. “Let me guess. You fed all of the dwarves to hide your affection.”

A groan. She dropped her face into her hands. Easier to comply to get this over with faster. By the Shire, the man was single-minded. Was his Buttercup as tragically romantic? “Of course. But I made him the biggest sandwich.” 

They arrived at their destination, and she dared to hope the subject was closed. She slid off the evil mare without waiting for him and headed for the stairs.

From behind, she heard his footsteps. “Add another item to your gift this day,” Westley said, clearly not willing to let the matter rest. 

_Like a mangy dog with his teeth around a doily,_ she grumbled. Her lips pursed. _Add something?_ A glimmer of an idea to spare herself more humiliation curled her lips upwards.

“Something you don’t gift to the other dwarves as well,” Westley said with heavy disapproval. 

She stamped her foot. _Confound_ the man.

The day got better as Alfrid made his appearance. “Look here, now,” the odious man said as he once again barred her from the hall. “There are important people inside, and you two aren’t invited.”

Westley glanced to her. Buttercup surreptitiously cracked a knuckle. This hobbit had had it with interfering men. Revenge. The promise of it tasted sweet on her tongue. 

Prodding tears to her eyes, she wobbled closer to the fopdoodle of a man. “How could you?” she asked in a heartbroken (and sweetly loud) voice. “How could you treat me this way?”

From all directions, heads turned.

“Did what we have mean nothing to you?” she continued in the same vein. The back of one hand pressed to her forehead. 

For his part, Alfrid looked dumbfounded. _Slower than molasses going uphill,_ she sniffed. 

Then with greater drama, “You said you’d marry me. You said you loved me, and I believed you.” Wide, teary eyes drifted to the townspeople, pulling them in. Her fingers bunched the hem of her tunic, and her chin wobbled. Her face crumpled as if with shame. She focused on her prey. _You, Alfrid Lickspittle, are going down._ “What about the _baby?_ How can you deny your own child?”

Murmurs spread through the courtyard, angry and rumbling with disapproval.

“Here, now,” an old crone said as she hobbled closer. “If you, Alfrid Lickspittle, took advantage of this small lady, you will make it right.” Her cane poked him hard in the chest.

“I never touched her!” Alfrid insisted, face flushed and eyes wide. Sweat dotted his forehead quite satisfactorily, Buttercup thought. He backed away as more people marched towards him with murder in his eyes. 

“There, there, dear,” one matron said, patting her arm. “We’ll deal with this.”

“He was so _charming,”_ Buttercup insisted, batting her eyes. 

“Why, she’s no more’n a child,” she heard one man grumble. 

The mood turned ugly, Alfrid bolted—pursued by many of Lake-town’s outraged citizenry, including the crone with her cane lifted high—and just like that, the path was cleared. 

Buttercup wiped the tears from her face. Beaming up at Westley, she said, “Shall we?”

“What was that about?” he asked coolly with eyes at half mast.

“Watch him today. You’ll understand.”

He halted her with one hand to her arm. “A gift for your king. A real gift.”

“Westley,” she growled, plunking fists on her hips. “I have a war to help orchestrate, an orc to locate—”

“Or possibly a goblin or troll,” he interjected.

Buttercup glared harder. “—a debilitating fear of ROUSes to confront, pigheaded dwarves, elves _and men_ to lecture, and still manage to find time for some weapons training. I’m swamped.”

“Add to the gift,” he repeated. “Even kings need love, and from what you’ve shared, you are an imaginative lady. You’ll think of something.” A pause. “You should find time to rest, as well,” he said gently. “If we don’t have our health, we haven’t got anything.”

OoOoOo

Buttercup jogged down the length of the hall, Westley’s quieter feet right behind. Once they spilled onto the terrace, she instantly began speaking.

To the Elvenking: _“Tullen tye-rehtien._ You told me to inform you these words so that you would know your future self sent me.”

“Future self?” Gandalf blurted, his bushy eyebrows flying upwards.

Buttercup spared him a nod, but her focus remained upon the Elvenking. “The rest was _‘Súl suuya, anar sila, loti vanwa.’_ Your wife’s words, you told me.” The elf’s eyes widened considerably, but she moved on.

To Bard, “Braed.”

Next to Gandalf, “You said to tell you that you had been imprisoned in Dol Guldur during our absence. There, you encountered Thrain who is now dead.”

Silence.The three leaders turned to one another in question and read matching answers upon their faces.

She bobbed on her feet. “Good. Listen up. We have a lot to do and no time to do it in…”

OoOoOo

Westley and Buttercup thundered across the fields between Dale and Erebor on the mare. The bay, according to Thranduil, was one of the swiftest horses from the elves’ stables even if she seemed to have it in for hobbits.

What Thranduil thought of Buttercup’s delay, she didn’t want to know. Under Westley’s watchful eye, she whipped up a bunch of hastily-constructed sandwiches. Plus the confounded addition which he deemed acceptable. 

“True love,” Westley dared lecture the king of the elves, “takes precedence.”

If Thranduil had any reservations, after that, Buttercup was certain they were gone and the elf was convinced that, yes, the hobbit and the pirate were more than a couple nuts short of a decent pie. _Bother._

The horse, _Lach_ by name, skidded to a halt right beneath Nori, who gaped down at them with both surprise and distrust (the second centered more upon Westley). “Bilbo,” Nori said. “If you’re thinking Thorin will spare you because you brought a masked man—”

“Rope, Nori. Now!” she said urgently, rising to stand on the mare’s saddle. “Enemies coming. Azog and Bolg. ROUSes.” When the dwarf hesitated, she rolled her eyes and said the password, “Or I tell Dori what happened to Ori’s fiftieth birthday cake.”

Down came the rope. Up Buttercup climbed while Westley waited below. The instant she was on the balcony, Westley tied her gifts to the rope’s end. A kick to Nori’s ankle and the food arrived faster than her arms could manage alone. 

Buttercup tore through the bindings, dropped the rope back over the railing, then she shoved a sandwich at Nori. Gathering the rest in her arms, she ran. “Nori, you’ll need to keep watch,” she babbled over one shoulder. “I swear, if we live through this, I’ll tell you what’s happening. For now, you can’t leave that balcony.”

“You’d better be telling me the truth, Bilbo,” he shouted in her wake. 

“Bilbo?” Ori emerged from another passageway. She tossed him food, too, but didn’t stop. A breathless, “Food. Eat in a hurry, Ori. Enemies coming.” 

She repeated it with each subsequent dwarf until only one hefty sandwich remained…and the blasted addition. Buttercup fumbled with both, trying to free up her hand to don the ring, when Dwalin caught up with her, untouched sandwich in his left hand. “You’ll want to eat that,” she told him. “Or Kíli will.”

“Kíli will what?” Fíli asked, arriving with his brother, both carrying their food. 

“Never mind that,” Dwalin snapped. “What’s this about enemies coming?”

She shoved her burdens to the Durin brothers. “Hold these a moment.” (Fili held the ribbon with a lock of her hair affixed to it to his brother, both bearing confused expressions.) She grabbed the ring from her pocket and slipped it onto her finger. “Be right back with Thorin,” she assured them as she reclaimed her gifts from Fíli and Kíli. “He’ll be free of the dragon-sickness.”

Behind, she heard Kíli ask his brother, “Bilbo slip a cure into Uncle’s sandwich, you think?”

_As if._

Buttercup schooled her feet to a slower pace, her heart pounding out a song of urgency that kept prodding her feet faster. _Elves and dragons._ Why could nothing be easy?

Reaching Thorin, she only wanted to hurl herself in his arms again—they made a truly warm and cozy sanctuary—and that must have been why she was a tad more…ahem…aggressive this time. She grabbed the dwarf by his jacket, hauled him close, and kissed him thoroughly. 

Really thoroughly. The way she’d always dreamed of doing. 

A gasp escaped the lips pressed to hers. Signal enough that her moment was done, she supposed. Then trying to be as brusque as possible, her cheeks tomato red, she thrust the sandwich at him. “Eat this. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, and you’ll need it today.”

His hands closed instinctively about the food, his eyes wide.

Then using the words he’d given her (which the confounded dwarf had refused to translate), she said, “My pronunciation will be wrong, but you told me to tell you this: _Inkhir, uzbadê. Innikh dê. Kilmîn mafarrakh d’afrukh. Amrad inkh gagin ra gagin, Kidhuzel.”_

By then end, his eyes competed with the Arkenstone in size, and the last caused a flash of…something…to click within them. “How is it you speak Khuzdul? Who was it who taught you our tongue?” he asked in a voice soft with threat.

“You did,” she said bluntly. “Or your future self, rather.” Then her brow furrowed. “Why? What did you have me memorize to say to you?” 

“You do not know what you said?”

“No.” With growing impatience, she stepped closer. Thorin, she was shocked to see, took a step back. “Oh, hold still. Like I would ever hurt you. Eat, Thorin.” Then clambering aboard his boots for added height, she stretched up and removed his crown. With a flick of the wrist, she tossed it aside. “No more gold,” she lectured. “We love you as you are.” _(Love? You utter ninny! You don’t say love like this!)_

He stepped back in a hurry, dumping her onto her feet without warning. 

“You sure are skittish.” Her eyes narrowed. To herself, “Just what _was_ it you told me to say, you wretch?” Shaking away the thought—this Thorin looked no more likely to share than the previous version—she continued. 

“No, I’m not a lad. Bilbo is my brother, and it’s a long story.” She flapped a hand. “Eat, Thorin. I’m not kidding. You need the food.” She grabbed his sleeve, and wonder of wonders, he let her lead him out of the treasury. Perhaps his future self had said something shocking, for he sure seemed off-balance. 

“Azog’s coming,” she nattered away. “Enemies are surrounding Erebor. The men and elves will help—oh, don’t give me that look,” she said when she sensed a death glare boring holes through the back of her head. “I’m well aware of the situation, but unless you think your pride more important than your sister-sons, you’ll be quiet and let me finish.”

“Us?” Fili asked. 

Buttercup sighed. They were close enough to the treasury exit for the rest of the congregating Company to hear her words. “I have no time to prove things to you,” she told them. Then she hesitated. “Dwalin, let’s say I’ve been living the same day over and over again, and I needed some phrase or word to tell you that would inform you I wasn’t quite as crazy as you think. What would you have me say?”

“What?” a number of dwarves said.

“There’s not a thing you could say after a statement like that,” Gloin groused.

She stamped one foot. “Look, I am out of time.” She whirled to face Thorin and poked one finger in his chest. _“Eat,_ confound you. I went through a lot of trouble to bring you that.”

Emotions churned in his eyes, but Thorin slowly took a bite, his expression a demand for answers.

Answers she had little time to provide. She summed it up. She’d been living the same day. It kept changing and people kept dying, including his sister-sons, himself, Bofur and Buttercup…er… _Bilbo._ (So far, Thorin was the only soul inspecting her as if to assure himself of her gender, but then again, he was the only one she’d kissed.)

A sharp whistle echoed its way down the hall. _Westley._ “I’m out of time.” To Thorin, “Last night you told me to tell you that unless I receive better training, I’ll keep dying—”

_“Keep_ dying?” Bofur repeated, his eyebrows vanishing beneath his winged hat.

She managed a smile that held no amusement, and confound it all, her body adopted a fine tremor, one she knew her dwarves spotted by the way they unanimously stiffened. “I’ve been beheaded, stabbed, crushed, and…” Here, her voice shook violently. “…eaten alive by giant rats. Not sure how much more I can take, so if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not do it anymore.”

Sideways glances were exchanged among the dwarves while she took a deep breath. Back to Thorin: “Choose. If you don’t believe me, Thranduil has a couple trainers waiting for me back in Dale.”

“That fairy?” Dwalin asked in outrage.

“You are a member of our Company,” Thorin said softly, halting the others’ objections. When her attention returned to him, she found him unbudging. “So long as the rest of you did not teach her Khuzdul?” Hard eyes moved among the others.

“Khuzdul? Nay!” Bofur denied, palms flashing.

_“She?”_ Kili and Fili pounced.

Thorin nodded shortly. “As I thought. Very well, Mistress Baggins, I will believe you.”

“If it helps, Nori was teaching me during the battle the first…well, I’m not sure how many times.”

“Then Nori will continue,” Thorin decreed. “We will not change instructors mid-way. It would only set you back. What?” he asked with exasperation as her hand inched upwards and a couple fingers wiggled with a comment.

“You also said to have Ori remain behind. If there is any record of an event like this in Erebor’s library, we have to look for it. Thranduil will be questioning the elves at his disposal, but he sounded doubtful of discovering anything.”

“Anything else?” he asked evenly, a muscle along his left jaw twitching.

“Gandalf, Bard, and Thranduil would meet with you if you are willing,” she informed him, bobbing on her toes as her sense of urgency climbed. “You planned to use Frathrasir’s Maneuver, whatever that is, with the Company and Dain’s dwarves being the boot.” 

The words must have meant something to Thorin, for his face lost another heft dose of doubt. Instead, he nodded slowly, mind racing.

Buttercup flapped one hand. “Oh, for pity’s sake, would you eat the blasted sandwich already? Take it from a hobbit who’s had nothing to chew on for months now. Food is good. Food is your friend. I suffered that elf’s disdain to get you that food. The least you could do is eat it.” Then a smile. “Think of it this way. It’ll annoy the Elvenking that some of his precious stores are in dwarf bellies.”

“Months?” Dori asked, aghast.

She patted his face. “Thank you, Brother, but you don’t have the time for a more thorough explanation.” 

Back to Thorin (the confounded dwarf even looked masterful with a mouth full of sandwich), “Someone else is reliving this day as well,” she told him in a softer tone. Once again, all of her dwarves stiffened as if on command. _(Too cute!)_ “The elves and men will be keeping watch, trying to determine who it is. He’s better at this than I am, Thorin. This battle gets worse for us daily. The elves and men know the strategy our foes used yesterday, and we’re hoping your Frathrasir’s Maneuver makes the difference. If I’m staying behind in Erebor, you’d better keep Westley with you. He’s out there waiting by the gates. Masked man. You can’t miss him.”

Ori sidled closer to her. “So I search the library?”

Thorin nodded slowly. “Do. I’ll send your middle brother with you. The three of you bar yourselves into the library. If none of us return for you, Mistress Baggins, you will know our efforts today failed. Think of something else.”

Before he could leave she tossed him her… _blush, blush, blush_ …gift. Then donning her ring like an absolute coward, she sang to Ori, “See you in the library,” and bolted.

What Thorin made of the bit of blue ribbon tied around a lock of one of her curls, she tried not to imagine.

OoOoOo

Nori and Ori barged through the doors, interrupting Buttercup’s silent jig in the atrium of the library. What could she say? Libraries made her happy. So many books (which she couldn’t read) with so many stories (again, which she couldn’t read). It was magic. (That she couldn’t access.)

 _Oh, hush, you,_ she said to that inner detractor. Books were wondrous things. No, she couldn’t read these, but her fertile mind raced in fantastical directions just thinking about what they might hold. 

Tearing her gaze from the second and third stories of the library—each overlooked the central square atrium—she beamed at the brothers, only to have her smile wilt at the edges at the sheer load of weaponry they carried. 

Nori paused inside the threshold to kick shut the two arching iron behemoths that pretended to be doors, then his boots echoed loudly as he jogged to catch up with Ori. Together, the Ri brothers made their way to the atrium where she waited.

“What were you doing?” Nori asked with a slight smirk.

“Me?” She smoothed a curl behind one ear. “Oh, nothing. Just waiting.” See? Innocent face. Nothing happening here. 

Ori’s snort shredded that tale. With a shyly teasing glint in his eye, he said, “Looked like dancing to me.”

Nori’s grin widened. He nudged his brother’s shoulder with his own. “She’s thrilled to have us as her instructors. Plainly overjoyed.”

The two set their burdens down upon a scarred wooden table in the center of the smial-sized atrium. Then without word, they shoved the squealing, protesting table up against one line of surrounding stone bookshelves. 

Ori cleared his throat once that was done. “What am I looking for exactly? Information about traveling through time?” he asked a bit hesitantly.

Buttercup joined them near the table, her eyes slow to cease from drinking in the beauty around her. Yes, the library was dusty and disordered, but purple and yellow crystals hung from the ceiling high above, and more golden crystals illuminated the rows of bookshelves like magic. She’d never seen anything like it before Erebor. 

And the bookcases! Elves and dragons, she should have known dwarves wouldn’t settle for clobbered-together contraptions of wood and nails. These were of a glowing white stone that stood taller than two dwarves, one atop the other, with runes and carvings along their borders. Best of all, they had ladders. True ladders with wheels that were attached to a brass pole along the top of the shelves, permitting one to slide the ladder up and down one row of bookshelves at leisure. 

How brilliant! How ingenious! It put everything in reach for shorter hobbit hands.

“Not traveling through time,” she corrected, focusing on their assignments. She pursed her lips, eyes lifting to the second and third stories with sudden dismay. Those floors, too, were crammed with thousands of tomes, scrolls, and loose parchments well into decay. 

She knew. She’d poked around a bit back when she was in denial and avoiding reality. This, she lamented, would take forever.

_Good thing I have that,_ a part of her affably provided. 

Snorting at her own foolish thoughts, she attended to the scholar. “Time is looping,” she explained awkwardly. “I know of no other way to put it. Each day, I wake at the same place, same time. I’ve relived this day…” She bit her lip. _Huh._ No matter which way she churned it about in her mind, she came up with a big question mark. Yes, she’d intentionally lost track, but to not know if it was months, half a year, or longer? 

“You don’t know how many times?” Ori asked, his expression decidedly sympathetic.

“I’m betting dying more’n once had something to do with it.” Nori folded his arms, an unhappy look upon his face.

She could have kissed them both. Thorin, she thought, probably would have insisted on such details and not understood her aversion to paying attention to them. “I tried not to keep track,” she admitted.

Ori grunted uncomfortably. Then to his brother, “I’ll start searching on the top floor.”

“Keep track of what you’ve done,” she called after him. “So I can tell you where to resume tomorrow.”

He waved one hand over his shoulder.

Leaving her with Nori, who leaned back against the table with arms folded. “So. You resort to blackmailing your own brother?” 

Buttercup sputtered, objecting that she’d had no choice, but he tugged upon one of her curls. “Next time,” he said, “leave off the threats, pipsqueak.”

His grin flashed when she wrinkled her nose at the name. Then with a lightness belied by his eyes, Nori said, “Dwarves are a possessive lot, and we’re mighty protective of our lasses. You do our family honor by calling us brothers—and aye, we all heard you call Dori that. We discussed it while Dori armed himself. We accept.” Then with momentary uncertainty, “If’n you meant it, of course.”

“I meant it,” she said softly, setting one hand on his arm. “For many years, it’s only been me and Bilbo. I’d be honored to be counted your kin, Nori.” 

“Bilbo won’t object?” he asked, gaze studiously elsewhere.

She leaned into Nori’s side. “Bilbo would be relieved,” she confessed. At Nori’s look of disbelief, she said, “You are a lot more intimidating. Bilbo chased off suitors with a broom. I imagine he’d be more than happy to let you take care of that duty,” she ended dryly.

Nori’s lips quirked. “Suitors, eh?” He flexed his fingers. “I’d right enjoy that.” He glanced down at her, and in a softer voice, he said, “We lost one sister. We’ll not lose our second.” 

It was said with all the solemnity of a vow, and her skin prickled. Her throat tightened, and her eyes turned watery. 

Until an image popped into her head: Findo Boffin, the most aggravatingly insistent suitor imaginable, mustering up the courage to speak with _Nori._ By Yavanna, she’d relish that. Maybe Nori would be enough to convince the pugnacious hobbit that no really did mean no. 

Nori grunted and changed topics, his demeanor sobering. “This whole thing sounds like some grant jest, but if you say we’re living the same day over and over, I’ll believe you. Thorin’s convinced, and that’s good enough for me.” His brown eyes tilted down to her. “From now on, no threats, Namad. When you greet me on watch, call me Nadad.” A lecturing finger appeared under her nose. “Try to look your gender. It’ll make things easier.”

“Are you telling me that you wouldn’t protect me as Bilbo? Because I know that’s not so. Dori was always looking out for me.”

Nori muttered something incomprehensible.

She bumped him with her hip. “Shall I put some flowers in my hair?” she asked dryly. 

“Aye,” he said with heavy exasperation. “Bilb—” He rolled his eyes. _“Buttercup,_ we’ve not had endless days to accustom ourselves to your true gender. Give a dwarf some help.”

“Flowers? Really? Nori, be serious. Limited time, here.” She pointed at her chest. “Bad enough Westley has me fixing courtship gif—” _Oh, shut up, you blathering humperdink,_ a part of her shrieked.

Nori jerked upright, face filling with avid interest. “Courtship gifts. You were going to say ‘courtship gifts’!” he accused delightedly. “So _that’s_ what that was you tossed at Thorin. A favor.” The look upon his face made her groan—it was pure mischief. “Well, well, well.” A heavy arm dropped around her shoulders and pulled her up against his side. “Is my new namad sighing over our bonny king?”

That settled it. She was going, by the Shire, to sew her own lips shut. Surely that would stop her from leaking embarrassing information left and right. 

His grin grew. “Aye, that’s the way of it, right enough.” He tapped one burning cheek with his free hand. The other kept her pinned in place at his side. 

“Did I say I needed more brothers? Because plainly, I was wrong,” she rushed.

Nori laughed in her face. “Too late. You’re ours now.” Then with a hint of hardness entering his voice, “And I’m warning you, lass. Don’t be keeping this private when you relive this day. Dori may be a mother hen, and Ori may seem distracted by his books and papers at the best of times…”

“And you?” she interrupted, detecting something in his voice she felt compelled to poke at.

“Me? I’m a no good rotten thief,” he said lightly.

That fast, his tunic was bunched in her hands, and his face was hauled down to her level. “Who _dared_ to call you that?” she snarled. “I’ll hit him over his head with my best iron skilled.” Then in fairness, “Once I reacquire it.”

This time, Nori’s smile was slow. He pressed their foreheads together, utterly disarming her. She knew dwarves did not exchange that embrace lightly. It sent chills down her spine. Elves and dragons, the feeling of belonging flooded her. 

“So fierce, Namad. Best you gain skills to back up your threats first.”

Namad. Nadad. She recalled hearing the latter term a few times between Kíli and Fíli. “Nadad. That’s Khuzdul, isn’t it?” she managed around a throat suddenly thick with emotions. “Thorin had kittens when I parroted back the bit he taught me last night.” Her lips twisted. “Not that I have any idea what the lug taught me to say.” Her face brightened. Perhaps—

“No,” Nori said with a snort. “If you’re wanting a translation, you ask Thorin. I’m not about to get in the middle of that.” With a brief smile, Nori tweaked her nose. Then, he stood up straight, releasing her. “First thing we’ll be working on…”

“How to avoid rats?”

What he read upon her face brought a grim kind of understanding. “Like that, was it?” A short nod. “Close combat fighting first. That letter opener of yours is handy enough, but if an enemy—rat or otherwise—gets too close, you won’t be able to strike effectively with that large a blade. You’ll be wanting something smaller.” He turned his back, searching the table. Then he presented her with two small sheaths with shining hilts. Steel, she thought.

A short inhale, and she wrapped her hands around them. The hilts were cool. Smooth. “What do I do?” 

Nori helped her to latch the sheaths to her thighs. He got her used to the feel of them, their weight and the little grooves on the hilts that told her without looking where the sharp edges would be at all times. A small detail, but crucial. 

Little use, Nori said, her blade would be if she accidentally dragged the flat of it across a goblin’s neck instead of the razor’s edge.

After a few hours of sweaty, repetitious work, he stopped going easy on her.

Her newly acquired nadad proceeded to drill her into the ground.

OoOoOo

A thunderous rap ended Nori’s torturous excuse for training. _Thorin._ Jubilation filled her. Breathy anticipation to see him hale and whole.

But before she could rush to the door and throw it open, Nori caught hold of her by the seat of her pants and dragged her back into the atrium, her bare feet squeaking and sliding along the dusty marble floor. “Nori,” she whined. 

“Wait,” he whispered near her ear, and she heaved a sigh of relief that his lips had come no closer. Hobbit ears were sensitive. _Very_ …ahem..stimulating. Explaining that bit to her new brother was more than she was willing to tackle this year. 

A sudden thought: did Thorin find her ears appealing…or too elf-like? An image popped into her mind, of her father nibbling on her mother’s ear, and her mother giggling and blushing like a youth. Only Buttercup’s shameless imagination replaced her mother with herself, and her father with Thorin, and the effect was instantaneous. Heat rushed through her, and Buttercup hastily sheathed the dagger in her hand so that she could fan her face. 

_Bad, bad, bad hobbit._ What was it about that dwarf that turned her into a scandalously wanton creature? 

_Wanton._ She slapped palms over her eyes. What was she coming to? 

The door opened. Her heart lifted like birds in flight…only to plummet back to earth and splat on the ground. No Thorin. It was Gloin.

_And Gloin doesn’t matter?_ she scolded herself. _Rude, Buttercup Baggins._ Thoughts of Gloin’s wife and Gimli in mind, she hurried to the doorway and gave the dwarf a thorough look-over. 

Gloin greeted her with a crinkle of the eyes—Gloin’s version of a grin—but his words to Nori never faltered. “…lit the old aqueducts Thror helped the men of Dale construct during the days of Girion’s sire. The blaze was a sight, I’ll tell ya that. Sent those rats scurrying.”

What was this? 

Gloin sniffed in satisfaction. “Managed to trap ‘em all in the elves’ nets down to the last rat.” To Buttercup, “Teach them to touch our burglar.”

That fast, she had her arms around the redheaded dwarf, as far around as they could reach. “I love you. Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

“She means the Company,” Nori said with soft snort.

Gloin patted her roughly on the back and extricated himself. A second crinkle of his eyes, and he said, “I’m to take you to Dale, Bilbo” he said. 

“Buttercup,” Nori corrected.

Gloin nodded dutifully. “I’ll remember it. Thorin, Dain and Gandalf are waiting.”

“You want my sister, I’m coming with you,” Nori decreed. 

“Sister?” Then with a frown. “Who decided you get to claim our burglar, thief? Oin and I have equal claim.”

Buttercup swiftly intervened before the fight swallowed up the rest of the evening. “We can discuss this later.” A hard look halted Nori’s objection. She was not losing valuable Thorin-time… _Ahem._ She was not losing valuable _planning_ time to their squabbling.

OoOoOo

The walk through Dale was heartbreaking. It was packed with wounded. Elves. Men. Even some of Dain’s dwarves. This time around, there were no tent infirmaries set up, so pallets lined the streets, and healers scurried from patient to patient.

Buttercup swallowed heavily, and Ori’s arm wrapped around her. She had become too acquainted with the moans and cries that characterized the aftermath of battle, but familiarity did nothing to dull the horror of blood smears and the heavy iron tang that permeated the air. Her heart could no more turn off at the suffering around her than it could harden itself against Thorin, and she was glad it was so.

She didn’t want to be the kind of person who could be untouched by this misery and pain. 

They reached Bard’s hall. Inside, they found the space lit by candlelight. More wounded lay on pallets pushed up against the walls near the door, and farther in, she could see a number of elves surrounding Thranduil as he conversed with a filthy-looking Bard, a just as filthy Westley (still wearing the mask), a haggard Gandalf and…

“Thorin!” Call it exhaustion, call it relief after worrying for her dwarves all day. Whatever it was, it had her running to him in a flash. Or trying to.

Buttercup tripped on an uneven stone she hadn’t even noticed. Which sent her arms windmilling in a desperate bid for balance. Which sent her careening and splatting belly-down on the floor with a spectacular lack of grace or finesse. 

“Tomorrow, Namad,” Nori said with light amusement. “Tell me to teach you how to fall properly.”

“And to watch where you’re stepping,” Ori agreed.

She nodded absently as she scrambled to her feet. More of her dwarves were headed for her…well, except Thorin who waited with challenging face and arms folded across his chest. 

_Don’t care,_ her Took-side insisted. She raced through her friends and their effusive words of relief, bypassed Bard and Gandalf and threw herself at her dwarf king. 

She didn’t care what he thought. 

Okay, yes, she did. She really did as she squeezed him around his middle, her cheek squashed to his hard armor. 

Then his arms slowly closed around her. If all he ever felt was the fondness of a friend, it was well.

OoOoOo

Buttercup kept glancing at the pocket watch Westley had kindly offered her—much to Nori, Dori and Ori’s narrow eyed displeasure. Her brothers grumbled to one another about not knowing to provide her a watch, which in turn ended with her on the receiving end of a triple glower.

“What?” she protested defensively. 

9:14pm. The assembled council had discussed the day’s successes—with what she’d informed them, they’d been able to completely turn the tables on the unknown mastermind directing the enemy’s efforts, resulting in a landslide victory. The council had debated what their nemesis might counter with and changed their strategies accordingly. 

_Like trying to mind read,_ she fretted. Just because it worked this time didn’t mean it would the next. Doubtless their foe (or foes) would adjust their plans come morning, too. 

With each passing minute, her nerves twanged like a viol whose strings had been too tightly stretched. This day would be erased with none to remember the chats that had been had. The kindnesses shared. Not Nori. Not Ori. Not Thorin.

Unsurprising, no one had dug up answers about what might have caused time to break as it had. The elves had discussed it for hours amongst themselves, and Gandalf had thought of nothing. In other straits, he professed that he’d consult the head of his order, one Saruman the White, but that was moot. Time would reset before any message could go anywhere. They could not consult Saruman. They could not seek the Lady Galadriel. 

They were, effectively, on their own. A fact that displeased all the plotters in the hall. 

She sat slumped against Dori and Nori. Nori had pulled his rank as an older brother to insist she tell the Ris again about their claim to her come morning, and starving for a sense of family and safety, she knew she’d do it. Bilbo was far, far away. If time never mended, she’d realized with a deep pang, she’d never see her brother again. 

It made her appreciate the three dwarf brothers all the more. She’d taken Bilbo for granted. In hindsight, it was easily seen. She would never do it again.


	11. Respite

Time continued its inexorable march nowhere. While her allies scoured the battlefield, alert for any indication of who their true enemy might be, Buttercup trained. Trained and knew that most likely, her allies were re-plowing the same ground over and over again. It would take a miracle for them to stumble upon a key bit of information if they hadn’t already, for they wouldn’t remember what they’d already done.

It was maddening when she permitted herself to think on it.

At first, the training sessions were confined to exchanging blows within the atrium. Nori labored to get her to _move,_ by Mahal, and to keep moving, and eventually, her feet decided that yes, indeedy, they could work in tandem with the rest of her body. (Who knew?) 

Then came the day that Buttercup, in a fit of desperation to impress Nori _just once, confound it,_ took to the bookshelves. Nori had been flabbergasted. Then ecstatic. “You mean to tell me you can climb like a squirrel and never bothered to use it?” He’d flicked her earlobe with a finger, and she’d jerked, slapping one hand over the smarting ear protectively. 

Nori had aimed a finger at her nose. “Use what you’ve got, pipsqueak,” he’d lectured. “Be smart. Forget ‘proper’ and ‘fair’. They’ve no business in a fight for your life. The point is to survive, Namad. Use any means, fair or foul, aye?”

Thereafter, he insisted she put to use her “unnatural” penchant for climbing upon anything and everything, driving her onto the bookshelves, tables, railings…whatever was in reach. She’d never be able to stand toe-to-toe with the likes of Azog—with time doing its loops, her body couldn’t put on musculature—so they had to work with what she had. 

As Nori had said before, he’d lost one sister. He had no intention of losing another because she had “noodle arms”, and he did not fail to mention that with each repeat of the day.

“I don’t have ‘noodle arms,” she’d protested. Why, she was probably the strongest female hobbit _ever_ after questing with these dwarves.

Nori had snorted, tossing his head in an unimpressed shake. “A dwarfling could take you in a match.” Then that sharp smile of his appeared. “Today,” he stressed. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll know enough tricks to keep yourself alive.” A pause. A crinkling of the eyes. “And mayhap take down an unsuspecting dwarf or two.”

That had captured her full attention. “Truly?”

Nori had adopted a lazy grin. “That put some spark in your eyes. Who are you itching to fell, Namad?” He nudged her ankle with one booted foot. “Surely not your favorite nadad.”

“Of course not.” She’d planted herself by his side and bumped him with her shoulder. “You’re my brother.” And by his Mahal, she meant it.

She wouldn’t deny, however, that his words had lit a fire in her soul. Could she perhaps even surprise…Thorin? Oh, she’d never attack her beloved—well, _probably_ not, but given Thorin’s penchant for stuffing both feet in his mouth, anything was possible.

But to earn a measure of Thorin’s respect? That tantalizing prize was more alluring to her than all the gold in the treasury. Not quite on a par with _kissing_ Thorin, but she suspected nothing would ever top that bit of bliss.

Nori eyed her and snorted. “Alright, Namad. Keep your secrets,” he said at last. “But if you dump Dori on his rear for fussing, don’t drag me into it.”

Buttercup had laughed. _Really_ laughed. Unable to contain her exuberance— _she_ was going to earn Thorin’s respect, by the Shire—her hips did a little shimmy. She then bounced up to peck Nori on the cheek. “You’re the best, Nori.”

His eyebrow had climbed. “You are definitely up to something, pipsqueak,” he drawled, but she could tell he was pleased. 

That exchange, that precious memory, was one she loved so well, she permitted it to repeat, word for word.

Five whole times.

Oh, alright, _six,_ but who was counting?

OoOoOo

If the days were a refuge of sorts from the nightmare occurring outside the mountain, the nights were often a harried opposite crammed full of frustrating planning sessions in which Thorin, Gandalf, Bard, the Elvenking, and the others plotted out the next day, often using strategic terms that left Buttercup blinking in confusion.

But there were some, the rare few, in which the battle ended so decisively and in their favor that the Company had precious hours to themselves after the injured were tended, the war council’s business finished, and baths were had. 

Buttercup managed to finagle time with each of her dwarves. From Bombur, she pestered an explanation about how he’d figured out her gender when no one else had. 

“I’m married, lass,” he’d explained, folding fleshy hands over his belly with a pleased little smirk.

“So is Gloin,” she’d countered.

Bombur had held her gaze steadily until she’d blushed at her foolishness and Bifur had patted her in sympathy as those nearby burst into laughter. Gloin noticed nothing until his nose was rubbing against it, and she should have remembered that.

From Dwalin, she gained more weapons play. His version of showing affection, she suspected.

From Fíli and Kíli, she gained…a headache. 

“So. Buuuuttercup,” Kíli drawled as he and his brother plunked themselves down on either side of her while she was fumbling with the basics to weaving upon the hand loom Dori had presented her with. (“To ease your heart,” her oldest nadad had said. By that, she assumed weaving to be a hobby Dori favored, and as she played with dusty and faded yarns, she’d soon discovered why. Bless him, she loved the fussy dwarf.). 

Ori’s head had jerked up and turned their way at Kíli’s tone. His eyes narrowed the tiniest amount. Having the Ri brothers as family, she’d learned quickly, had a myriad of benefits.

“Kíli. Fíli,” she greeted evenly, silent giggles building in her belly. Whenever they used that tone, the two Durins were up to trouble. If they thought her an easy mark, they were about to discover differently. 

Fíli took up the thread his brother had left dangling like the forgotten piece of orange yarn poking out of her loom. Buttercup’s teeth clamped down on her tongue as her fingers chased after the mutinous thing. He leaned closer until some of his braids brushed her shoulder and said, “So. You wish to be our auntie.”

Her fingers froze in place. Her heart sputtered, and she flushed hotly. 

“Ho, ho!” The two high-fived over her head. “That’s a yes,” Kíli chortled. “Even her ears are blushing.” Which of course meant that both brothers poked at her ears, earning them a startled squeak. Down fell the loom with a clatter, up bolted one flushed hobbit, and fast as that, too many eyes were on them. 

Ori stood, murder in his eyes. She waved him off. 

The Durin lads she could handle. She thought.

Leaning down ostensibly to collect her loom, she bestowed a sweet smile on Kíli. “Kíli, dear, either you shut your brother up, or I’m going to spread the word that each repeat of this day during battle, _you_ are constantly searching for Tauriel.” She clucked her tongue, Westley-style. “What would your uncle say about you harboring a tender for an elf?”

“How did you—?” Kíli’s lips slammed shut.

Her grin grew. “I didn’t know for sure, but now I do. Thank you, Kíli dear.”

That fast, the pendulum swung, and it was Kíli on the defensive, his own brother on the hunt. She’d collected her things and removed herself to where Ori sat. 

“What did they do?” he whispered before her hind end touched the floor beside him. 

“They were Kíli and Fíli,” she responded dryly. Then she pecked Ori’s cheek, and the youngest of her new brothers turned beet red. 

Ori shifted in his seat, a small smile on his lips. His eyes snuck back to her. “If they bother you, say the word. We’ll handle it.”

“I know,” she told him softly, telling him as best she could without words how much it meant to her and how much faith she had in the Ri brothers. To them, she’d been their sister for a matter of half a day. To her, it had been months already. More and more, they _were_ her brothers just as much as Bilbo. 

But the most precious of all the memories occurred later. How long, Buttercup didn’t know. Time had lost meaning. To consider how long she’d been running in circles was to court madness. Better to let it burble past like a river, imbibe of what it provided, and let it go.

But one night, one precious and special night as she sat struggling with her loom beside a fireplace aglow with the remains of what had been a roaring fire, Thorin joined her. 

She jerked upright as Thorin seated himself on the opposite side of the hearth, his head without crown, his body stripped to linens and leathers, and his eyes, when they met hers, clear. “You should sleep,” he said. 

Sleep? Elves and dragons, she couldn’t remember when she’d last done that. Her body subsisted on the sleep of a day faded in the distant past, and she hadn’t time to nap. “Can’t,” she said with a wrinkle of the nose and half-shrug. 

“Can’t?”

“Won’t, rather,” she conceded. “These moments, when all is quiet and the Company has survived, I memorize.”

She felt the press of his eyes on her as she added a new color to her weave. Each day undid her work, but she delighted in the patterns she was learning to create. They were yet crude and childlike, but Buttercup didn’t care. It reminded her both of Dori and, oddly enough, Bag End. 

“What is it you fear?” he asked after a long stretch of silence.

Her brow furrowed, and she debated her answer. In the end, she opted for honesty even if it was an uncomfortable admission she made. Her hands settled on the top of her wooden loom, and her gaze drifted to where Bofur entertained many of the others with a tale. “Time is broken, Thorin. I know you heard it this morning, but hearing it and living it…” Her eyes slid to his. “…it’s two different things.” She sighed and leaned back against the warm stone of the hearth’s side. “If time can break, what else isn’t as certain as we believe?”

He grunted, but she read it as one of thought. “I imagine it has been disconcerting.”

Buttercup snickered at the understatement. “A bit. Waking each morning falling into bushes is the cream on the top of that particular pie.”

He lit his pipe. Silent. Watchful. Only after he’d exhaled a handful of times did he venture with lips twitching, “Bushes?”

At her cutting look, his grin bloomed, sending her heart into pirouettes of joy. Bah! He was too handsome by spades. How was she to function when he looked like that?

“Every morning, _this_ morning, I wake up on the walls of Dale,” she explained. “After you exiled me, I wished for some solitude, and the children of Dale found a ‘halfling’ too interesting to leave alone.” How long ago that seemed. It had to have been at least half a year now. _More,_ a part of her asserted. _Much more._

Her mind skittered away from that subject like Ori from a bowl of greens.

“I should never have exiled you,” Thorin said softly.

The admission pleased her. “No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed with a soft grin. She reached over to touch his arm. “But I never blamed you. Not really. You were not yourself.”

A steady, intent look came her way, then he grunted. “You climbed Dale’s walls?” he asked with heavy disapproval. 

It seemed odd to her that he would find the matter of interest, but then, to him it had happened the night before. “It worked,” she mildly defended. Then with a sheepish smile, rubbing her nose, she added, “To be fair, I didn’t intend to fall asleep. Just to be alone for a while.” She waved one hand, dismissing the details. 

Inspiration struck. _(Oof!)_ Before her Baggins self analyzed, her Took self dove right in. Thorin needed to smile more. She liked a smiling Thorin. “Every morning since, I’ve toppled off the wall upon waking and landed in a mass of nefarious bushes. I think they’re out to get me.” She sniffed. Then lifting one finger, “I blame the horse.”

“The horse?” Again, a flash of a ghost of a grin.

_Success,_ she crowed. “Don’t ask.” She feigned bruised pride.

“I believe I just did.”

She leaned into one shoulder and curled her leg beneath her, facing him more directly. “You are in an odd mood this night.”

“That,” he declared, “is an evasion.”

“So is yours.”

“A king’s prerogative. Answer me,” he said, his mood still (to her mind) unusually mellow and open. 

Letting her head rest against the warm stone of the hearth, she said, “The embarrassing truth is that I’m frightened out of my wits each morning. One moment, I’m a hobbit at peace with the world, snoozing as contentedly as I would in Bag End. The next, this evil horse clops up to me, neighs loud enough to wake the dead, and then trots off in victory as I topple into a couple of bushes.” 

She spied a grin dancing about his lips, and warmth spread through her chest. Her breath caught. By Yavanna, she loved this unattainable dwarf. He was more than she could dream of even if she did live forever in this same day. 

Instead of gushing out embarrassing words of endearment, she said lightly, “That’s right, laugh at the hobbit’s misfortune.”

He chuckled softly. “Your misfortune is of your own making. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Trust me,” she sighed. “I am aware.” Then with keen interest, “Enough of my morning and its death-defying gymnastics. Your turn.”

His smile wilted, then disappeared. The King under the Mountain stared into the fire’s crackling embers, his face pensive. “It is done.” He took a keep breath, and her eyes lingered on the expanse of his broad chest. _(Naughty Took! Naughty!)_ Thorin’s gaze turned her way, and she schooled all signs of droolage from her face. “After so many years,” he told her, “Erebor is reclaimed. You might say it is a tenuous claim given our plight, but we _will_ wring victory from this circumstance.”

“What makes you so certain?” she asked, hoping to borrow some of his optimism. Hers had lost steam quite a while ago. This was the day that would never end. It made no sense; it just was. 

“You will not fail us,” he said softly, his eyes intent. “As Bilbo or Buttercup, you love my people too deeply to forsake them…” His lifted hand stalled her protest. “…despite faltering. No, you will continue to fight, my friend. We will continue to aid you and someday, this will end. When that happens, Erebor will return to all of my people. They will no longer live as paupers and exiles. Their halls and their wealth will be restored.”

“By their king. Your people are blessed to have you, Thorin,” she said softly.

She watched as firelight reflected off his strong features for a time, while Thorin gazed at the play of small flames on the embers. “Without your aid, would they have their king?” he asked softly.

“Yes, of course,” she burst. His eyes flew to her at her emphatic assertion. “Thorin, I…” She coughed into one hand, blushing. “…I wake you not because you fail to do so yourself. That first time, you conquered the sickness on your own. I wake you because I cannot bear to see you struggle with it longer than I can help. With me or without, you’d win your way free.”

An awkward silence (at least on her end) descended. Her fingers plucked at her hand loom. 

“What will you do?” he asked, abruptly ending a long stretch of quiet companionship. “Should one day time right itself and tomorrow come?”

Buttercup didn’t wish to consider it, but at his question, she reluctantly nudged her thoughts in that direction. “I don’t know,” she confessed. With a frown, “At first, I thought I would go mad. Living the same day, over and over.” She tugged one hand through her curls. “I have given up expecting tomorrows, Thorin. I’ve mourned. When I had the time,” she clarified. “For my brother. I don’t expect I’ll see him again, and I dearly long to. I have much to apologize to him for.”

“It will come,” he said. “That day will arrive when this cycle ends. Mahal would not abandon us.”

“He’s taking his time,” she said flatly.

His grin flashed. “Mayhap.” His head canted to one side. “Would you return to the Shire?” 

She exhaled, sagging deeper against the hearth. Her eyes drifted towards the embers in the fireplace. “This day is new to you, Thorin, but for me, so much has happened.” Her head turned until her dwarven brothers came into view. “I cannot leave them. They are as dear to me as Bilbo. There is no going back to the hobbit I was when I ran out the door. If they will have me, I will remain their sister.”

Then back to Thorin, “I would return to the Shire if the chance arose. I must. But I don’t think it will ever again be home.” 

Thorin leaned across the distance, and his bigger hand stretched out to collect one of hers. “It is peculiar,” he mused, turning the hand this way and that.

“What is?” Her eyes narrowed. If he dared issue insult now…

The blue of his eyes sharpened until they pierced right through her. “So small, these hands. The smallest of any in the Company. Yet it is they that carry our weight. It is they that will save us.”

She shivered. “I will try.”

He released his grip and returned to his seat. “Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart,” he said, and instantly, her mind returned to that first night they’d met when he’d said the same thing. He hadn’t known she listened, she didn’t think, but the words had remained with her. “I can ask for no more than that.”

OoOoOo

The days blurred into one seamless whole. Round and round, they played like tweens spinning beneath the sun until they were too dizzy to stand. _One could wish,_ she thought with some asperity, _the Valar would grow dizzy and halt, too._

Some days, the allies trounced Azog and his minions decisively. Others, the Defiler lived up to his name. Those days, hidden away in the library with first Ori and Nori, and later Kíli and Fíli when Thorin decreed she should learn the bow, the silence and absence of a summons told the tale. The orcs never entered Erebor to her knowledge, but her mind plagued her with graphic images of what likely occurred outside. 

The pattern of her life had become so ingrained, it came as a shock when Kíli deemed her as proficient with a bow as she’d ever be. Her training was over. It was time to return to battle.


	12. Hunting

Her lips tingled from the latest kiss with Thorin—by Yavanna, the dwarf was headier than any jug of whiskey, she cared not its potency—and she bobbed lightly upon the balls of her feet while she waited her king’s response to the latest retelling of current events. 

Thorin’s chin was low, and he stared at her as if seeing a stranger. _I suppose,_ she conceded, _he is to some extent._ Instead of a male Bilbo who barely knew which end of his sword to hold, Thorin found himself confronted with Buttercup and her growing arsenal. 

Her lips quirked as her dwarves stared at her in a whole array of disbelief. Who knew shocking a pack of dwarves could be so much fun? 

“We can’t send you out there,” Dori burst, utterly appalled in voice and expression. 

“I can do it,” she told Thorin, ceasing from her nervous bobbing. Before kissing Thorin, she’d armed herself with the daggers Nori had ever provided her—she knew exactly where to find them—as well as a dwarf child’s beginner bow with quiver and arrows Kíli had originally scrounged for her. Sting hung at her side, the mithril shirt peeked above the neckline of her faded tunic, and her brother’s trousers hugged her hips and legs. She was ready as she’d ever be.

“This is a lot to take in, Mistress Baggins,” Thorin said at last, the sandwich resting there all but ignored in his hand. She permitted herself to bestow a yearning glance upon it. _Food._ “By your own admission, we dare not permit you to die.”

Dragging her focus from the scrumptious looking bread, she again bobbed upon her feet. “Nori spent months training me, Thorin. _Months._ After him, Kíli and Fíli took a turn with Kíli teaching me the bow.” That in itself had been an experience. The two Durins did love to tease, and she’d left the time with new respect for them both. Buried underneath— _Far, far underneath,_ a part of her chortled—were dwarves much like their uncle. 

Only less grouchy. 

She spread open palms. “I’m as ready as I can be. We need to find the enemy’s Liner. Or Liners.” 

Beside Thorin, Fíli’s brows twisted in confusion.

“Sorry,” she rushed, realizing her error. “My name for it. Everyone else is living in a circle, repeating without any idea they’re doing it. We Liners aren’t. We remember in a straight line through all these cycles.”

“Liners?” Bofur interjected. “That’s the best you could do, lad…er…lass?”

She wriggled dismissive fingers at him. 

Thorin grunted. Then her eyes widened as he thrust the sandwich—the poor, _abandoned_ sandwich—into Dwalin’s hands and hefted the ax. ( _No,_ a part of her whined. _Not the ax again!)_ “Show me,” he said.

Um…what? “What?” She retreated one step. Then two. Two was better. Her fingers itched to fly upwards to ensure her eyeballs didn’t tumble from their sockets. 

Thorin prowled forward, and the rest of the dwarves scattered. “Defend yourself, burglar.”

“Is this really necessary?” she babbled, yanking Sting free. “I mean, isn’t Nori’s word good enough?”

“It would be,” Thorin said with a tiny smirk. “If he remembered any of it.”

With that, Thorin swung his ax. Slowly. Slower than she’d ever seen him do before. 

As it passed over her head, she frowned. Then she realized, _He’s testing me. Starting slow so as not to lob my head off. **Again.**_ Not that Thorin remembered that gem. 

Her nerves fled as the ax returned for a second go. This, she knew. This, Nori, Fíli and Kíli had done countless times with her. The only real wild card was Thorin.

Buttercup rolled under his strike and came up behind him. His ax blocked Sting from slamming into the armor protecting his back. Then with a twist, he forced Sting to the side.

“Your blows lack strength,” he commented.

Buttercup nodded absently, her focus on the way his weight balanced on his feet and the slide of the muscles she could detect beneath his clothes and armor. Both, she’d learned, could tell much of what one’s opponent intended next. “Reliving the same day,” she explained shortly. “Can’t build up muscles. Nori and Fíli concurred—for me, it will have to be about moving and dodg—”

She jumped over the next strike only to duck as his dagger followed right after it. She dared kick at the back of his knee as inertia twisted him partially away. Thorin’s leg folded, but one could hardly tell it had happened. His balance never faltered. He moved with the blow, set the foot back down and continued.

His eyes took on a gleam. _Oh, dear._

Thorin came after her with no mercy. 

In the end, her pride took a pounding, but Thorin relented. When the Company rushed from the mountain to join up with Dain as he hurled insults at their allies, Buttercup was with them. The second the enemy arrived, she took a deep breath, donned her ring, and went hunting.

OoOoOo

_A-hunting we will go_  
      _A-hunting we will go_  
 _Hi-ho the derry-o_  
      _A-hunting we will go._

The ridiculous mangling of a song whose lyrics she no longer remembered replayed through Buttercup’s mind with as much repetition as the day itself. If she could strangle that inner voice, she gladly would have. Barring that, she kept her lips clamped together to hold the words inside.

Singing would not help her effort to sneak about. _Unless the goblins decide the area is haunted,_ a dry voice provided. Then it sniggered.

At least a part of her was happy. 

Five days had passed since the first time Thorin had tested her and deemed her fit to leave the mountain. Five times, she’d sparred with the dwarf king as was now (grumble, grumble) becoming habit. Given Thorin’s stubbornness, unless she could concoct new and compelling arguments, those bouts were destined to become a fixture in her life. 

Buttercup loosed an arrow the instant a nearby warg paused, its nose to the air. She’d learned quickly not to hesitate. If a wolf or warg scented her, it had to die. There were no other options that ended well for her. She was _not_ being eaten alive again—not, not, not—and two days before, that had come too close to happening for her peace of mind. 

The arrow slammed through the warg’s left eye, and the creature yelped, drawing attention from goblins in the vicinity. Buttercup ignored them. She yanked another arrow from her quiver, notched it, and this time, the shaft penetrated not only the opposite eye but the skull. The warg collapsed to the ground, dead. 

Just the way she preferred them. 

Goblins reacted, glancing around with suspicion, but she had more to do than whittle away their numbers. For the first time, she successfully approached Azog’s location. The wily orc had taken to remaining in the back of his forces instead of charging at Thorin—why, she could only speculate. A kernel of dread had planted itself in her heart, a fear that whispered _he_ was the Liner.

Or as Bofur insisted (saying with a sad shake of the head that ‘Liner’ was a _terrible_ label and that she lacked imagination), a Breaker. She and her counterpart “broke” the original pattern of things and sowed all sorts of chaos. Not the most uplifting of titles, but in the end, she supposed he was right. She and the other Breaker meddled. They tore apart and altered to their own liking. 

_Like overzealous Lobelias,_ a part of her snorted. _Putting our pesky fingers into every pot and pie._

Pie… By Yavanna, she couldn’t even remember what such a thing tasted like anymore. It felt rude to eat when she didn’t require it and others possibly needed it more. Should this day ever realize it had overstayed its welcome and depart, she promised herself she’d pull up a chair and gorge herself. Bread, cheese, fruit…she didn’t much care what, only that it wasn’t meat. 

Buttercup crept closer to her target, each foot set down with painstaking care to avoid disturbing so much as a pebble. (Her mind abandoned the earlier rhyme in favor of a suspenseful tune.) This day, Azog had positioned himself on the eastern spur of the Lonely Mountain, granting himself a clear vantage point from which to direct his minions. The location also deprived Buttercup’s friends of any chance of sneaking up on the Defiler. 

Except her, but then, she suspected she knew how that would pan out. _Not well, Buttercup, my lass. Not well at all._

She knew from a glimpse earlier that Thorin was well aware of Azog’s protected positioning. The King under the Mountain was Not Pleased. 

The good news was he was also Not Alone. If Thorin got it into his fool head to try for Azog regardless of all the reasons why that would be stupid, Buttercup was confident Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli would tackle their king to the ground. Thorin would probably thank them later. Probably. 

But thus far, Thorin had been less brash than was his wont. Whether it was awareness of succumbing to dragon-sickness or her tale, he’d been contained. Determined, but much less impulsive. 

_Dratted dwarf,_ her Took side pouted. Determined Thorin was devastatingly alluring. He looked so commanding and strong. 

_As if Stubborn Thorin, Suspicious Thorin, and Smiling Thorin aren’t?_

_Oh, hush._

Azog paced on a slight rise on the mountain’s spur where nature had provided a naturally flat platform of slate. To either side, the mountain fell away—sharply to the sides, a bit more gently to the front. Weeds fought for life within jagged cracks between the bulbous lobes of rock that was characteristic of this section of the Lonely Mountain, but none reached higher than her ankle, and the wind here was sharper. Colder.

Azog stood among a good two dozen orcs and goblins, but it was one goblin carrying an awfully familiar scepter in his hand that caught her attention. Elves and dragons, she’d hoped that wretched thing had been crushed or otherwise destroyed when the Great Goblin had been slain. 

_Our luck isn’t good enough for that._

The new king didn’t elicit much awe or fear. Where the Great Goblin had been a great lumbering glob of blubber with a cruel streak and a shrewd mind, this one was reed-thin and of a size with Buttercup. Definitely not qualifying as scary, though as she approached she tried not to underestimate him. Small, she had cause to know, did not equal powerless or harmless. 

Goblin king and Azog argued while the rest of their underlings attended the altercation closely…and glowered at each other with thinly veiled hostility. Buttercup’s eyebrows shot upwards. She’d known orcs and goblins weren’t like the Free Peoples, but to have such division while on a battlefield? 

For a heartbeat, she considered disrupting their fragile peace. A picture: goblins and orcs attacking one another. It would be simple to give them the budge they needed.

But then a second picture: Thorin’s disapproval over risking the secret of her invisibility for a cause so petty and fleeting. If the other Breaker found out about her… Her eyes widened at a sudden thought. _What if they already suspect?_

Her focus rushed back to Azog. _They have to know._ She’d tinkered early on. Unless the other Breaker was a lack-wit (and given the Company’s luck, what were the chances of that?), Azog and his buddies had to be searching for her. 

Buttercup’s knees wobbled for one panicked second. Her hand closed into a fist, ensuring the ring went nowhere. Elves and dragons, she’d never been so thankful to have it. Did the orcs and goblins know who they hunted? She hadn’t been subtle when fighting beside her dwarves at the beginning. A halfling had no place here, so they must have wondered.

_I'd best be extra careful, and no doubt._

Instead of acting on her Tookish desire to stir up strife among her foes, she clambered to a spot nearby from which she could eavesdrop and squatted on her heels. Watching and listening. 

It didn’t take long to realize there was a massive and fatal flaw in her so-brilliant plan to find the enemy Breaker. _How, o wise one, do you intend to pick out the Breaker when you don’t know a word of Black Speech?_

The feeling stole over her that she was perhaps the world’s biggest humperdink. What, had she really expected the Breaker to slink its way up to Azog, rubbing hands together with a shifty look upon its face like some poorly constructed mystery tale? 

_Um. Yes?_

That was right. She was an idiot. A true zounderkite. 

_Bother._

Well, it made no sense to leave now, but if nothing obvious occurred this day, she made a note to herself to change her plans tomorrow.

The hours passed. Soon, her elbow found a home on her knee, and her cheek rested on her fist. Goblins and orcs came. Goblins and orcs went. She tried to memorize their faces, but by Yavanna they all looked the same to her. It was frustrating.

And boring. (She picked up a couple of loose rocks—carefully—and rotated them around in her hand.)

And cold. 

She didn’t realize how the cold had begun to creep up on her until she suddenly and violently sneezed.

OoOoOo

Buttercup froze in her squatted position, leg muscles burning and eyes saucer-sized. One hand flew to her foolish lips. Her nose tickled, heralding another nasal eruption.

Orcs and goblins alike jerked to attention, their weapons in hand. A number sniffed at the air.

_Oh. Dear._

Azog rumbled in his grating tongue, the words so much nonsense. The lot of them fanned out, all heading her way. 

_Why,_ a part of her howled. Of all the luck! _Groan._ Thorin and Westley were not going to be pleased that she’d sneezed their greatest asset away. There were ways to win Thorin’s respect, but this wasn’t it.

Confound it, couldn’t the odious creatures see the area was empty? Couldn’t they just this once cooperate and believe the obvious? But no, Azog had to be paranoid. As her heart hammered in her chest, the Defiler subjected the spur to a thorough scan, one that left not one weed or rock untouched. 

Her hand clamped harder around her nose, pinching it closed. The next sneezed itched and itched to be let loose, and tears leaked from her eyes at the effort of containing it. 

_Sneeze and die,_ she told her complaining nose. 

_Sneeze,_ it whined. _Must. Sneeze!_

By the Shire. She had to get out of here. Without breathing, apparently. 

She inched backwards, crab-walking like her life depended upon it (it did), while less than six meters away, Azog prowled in a slow circle, chortling to himself. Yavanna, he had the creepiest, direst laugh she’d ever heard. 

Then with a suddenness that had her heart giving a painful _eep,_ Azog charged in her direction. Out slashed both the bladed contraption that replaced the arm Thorin had lopped off of him (one could wish her love had aimed a bit higher) and a gruesomely spiked mace the orc held in his left fist, the weapons slicing out in a V. 

The mace smashed into rock and shattered brittle stone to her right. The bladed weapon… 

Buttercup dared not breathe as she stared cross-eyed at the razor-sharp tip where it had stopped…a bare inch from her nose. The sneeze bolted off to wherever it was terrified sneezes hid, and by the Shire, she wished it had been polite enough to take the rest of her with it. Slowly…oh, so painstakingly gingerly…she tossed the pebbles she’d held to the side. 

Instantly, Azog and his troops whipped towards the source. Buttercup frantically backpedaled on hands and feet, silent…silent… 

Just as fast, Azog whirled back around. His mace arced overhead and slammed down, smashing the rock between her knees with an echoing reverberation. The orc leaned upon the weapon, head turning one way, then the other, seeking. _Mommy._

Fine tremors shook her frame, but with every fiber of her being, she held her breath and stayed still. No matter how much she wanted to scream and run, she remained. Absolutely. Still. 

Azog snarled at his orcs and goblins, and they slashed at empty air with their crude swords. The Defiler stood, sniffing as if there was something in the air drawing his notice. (Buttercup took a subtle whiff of herself. Surely she didn’t stink!) 

Though the underlings began searching in a sloppy fashion, the goblin king amended Azog’s instructions. The creatures formed lines. Then with even steps, they headed towards the edge of the spur, unknowingly driving an invisible Buttercup before them. 

She risked a glance over one shoulder. The edge loomed closer and closer. Not the safe, gently sloping finger of the spur. No, that would be too easy, a part of her thought hysterically, but the steep, south-western side of the spur. It was a _cliff,_ by Yavanna. 

She searched wildly for some way around the seekers, but there was no hole in their lines to take advantage of. Risk it, and she was liable to be poked by a blade. Even if by some miracle the blade hit her mithril shirt, sure as sugar, her secret would be out. 

A cliff. 

She might have thought it a challenge… _if_ she was lacking in intellect. _Or_ had imbibed enough ale to fell a dozen dwarves. Or maybe if starving and bribed with copious amounts of fresh blueberries and cream (a weakness, she’d admit). This _not_ being the case, her heart stopped the instant her fingers brushed the jagged edge of the spur. _Oh dear heavens._ No more room. 

Her heart beat out a panicked percussion. She couldn’t permit the orcs and goblins to find her, couldn’t allow them to confirm one of their foes was able to sneak about invisibly. To do so would be… _Bad,_ a part of her concluded. _Really, really bad._

Which meant… She swallowed and glanced over the edge. How Nori had joked about her penchant for climbing, but truly, her experience had more to do with _trees._ The Shire had no mountains, nor even fearsome hills. _Which is how it should be,_ a part of her protested, utterly offended. _The Shire has nice, **respectable** hills. Hills with the good manners not to pose a risk to a person’s neck! _

_Pies. Pies with rich cream and flaky crusts._ One shaking foot lowered over the lip in search of a foothold. _Tea with two sugars._ A moan tried to escape her throat as the second followed suit. By Yavanna… A glance down caused her head to whirl in dizzy spins. 

So. No looking down. 

_That makes this a bit more difficult,_ a part of her shrilled.

She thrust it away. _Mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy._ The orcs and goblins drew nearer. They were almost on top of her now. _(Whimper.)_ Buttercup swallowed again and slid the first foot down lower, toes seeking purchase. As soon as they had it, her opposite hand ventured downward.

_Oooh, strawberries._ Another glance down. A shudder. 

A last thought: _Thorin had best be worth all I gave up for him!_

OoOoOo

Buttercup made it a quarter of the way down the cliff, each inch fraught with nail-biting tension, when her frantically questing toes suddenly found no purchase beneath her. Wide eyes hunted the cliff side—truly? she was _stuck?_ —but ferreted out no path from her location. She couldn’t proceed downward, and she sure as double iced cookies lacked the strength to climb all the way back up. Even _if_ the orcs and goblins deigned to politely take their leave.

The sneeze took that opportunity to return, bringing with it three friends for company, one rocking her nose right after the other. Buttercup clutched her hand- and toe-holds, icy fear pounding through her veins. Had any heard her above the wind’s moans?

She braced herself for the barrage of arrows and spears sure to come if any had, but as endlessly terse seconds passed into minutes, nothing happened. Stare upward through she did, she saw no ugly orc or goblin faces peering down in search of their sneezing snoop.

When a good ten minutes had passed, relief uncoiled the knots in her neck. _Okay, then. Good._ Finally, something went her way. 

She clutched the rock face, leg muscles strained by their prior cramped position adopting a definite wobble. _So. What now, genius?_

All her mind provided was the sound of serenading crickets. 

_Bother._

Time marched on while she waited, not _for_ anything but rather because there was nothing else _to_ do. Voices drifted down to her in spurts. Azog’s was the most distinctive, but there were others. She understood not one word.

Yes, her plans this day had been profoundly imbecilic. 

Buttercup ventured to look downward, grimacing. As she saw it, she had two options. One, she could let go. Or two, she could cling here for hours and hours until time reset— _if_ she could hold on that long. A second look downward settled it: no way was this hobbit letting go. She didn’t care if she’d wake up in the bushes without even a dinged nail. She. Was. Not. Falling. 

Just the thought of the weightless sensation followed by the _splat_ was enough to keep her hanging on long after the sounds of battle faded. The eagles came, but even so, her fingers and toes adamantly refused to move. They knew how this played out—they’d experienced smaller versions when trying to scale the mountain onto Erebor’s ramparts. 

_Nuh-uh._

The sun set, and she got a truly bird’s eye view of it. She’d have traded it in a heartbeat for a nice, warm coat. _Or a Thorin cuddle,_ she thought rather wistfully.

Sadly, that didn’t look to be happening. Another sneeze, this time accompanied by more sniffling. By Yavanna, she had to pee. And her head was feeling stuffy. Pressure built until her pulse throbbed in her temples. 

_Wonderful time for a cold,_ she thought in resignation, her cheek resting against cool rock. _Bother._ At some point, she’d lose her grip. Then… 

_Icky Buttercup bits all over the mountainside,_ she morosely concluded. 

“I really don’t want this memory, if You don’t mind,” she rasped out. If the Valar were going to make her live through this, they and Eru could hear her complaints. “I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. After stabbings and beheadings, broken bones from scaling Erebor and death by rat, a little courtesy would be appreciated.” A pause. “Truly.” A second, lengthier pause elicited no miraculous burst of light or the arrival of a friendly dragon. 

_Meh._ She’d almost welcome one of Smaug’s ilk. Maybe. If it was as Bofur had professed in her smial, that there was a flash of intense heat and—poof!—ash. That sounded painless enough. 

Another sneeze, a deeper shiver, and she muttered, “A hot bath. Is that too much to ask?” Oh, it had been _forever._ She could picture it: herself in the big tub back home, a thick terry robe waiting on the stool, and the scent of rose petals wafting in the air.

_Humperdink._ That had been stupid, filling her mind with such wonderfully warm thoughts. Reality felt all the colder in comparison. 

This, she decided, was miserable. Boring yet terrifying. Her face and lips had been chapped by the infernally howling wind—it _taunted_ her, by the Shire—and she really, really needed the restroom. The only thing worse than falling and splatting would be to fall and splat after soiling her own trousers. She blanched to imagine someone discovering _that._

She might not be the most respectable hobbit, but she still had standards, thank you very much. 

To distract herself— _Achoo!_ —she resorted to desperate measures and mangled another song.

_“Ninety-nine hobbits cling to a wall,_  
      _Ninety-nine hobbits cling…”_ she warbled.  
 _“One slips and falls and screams her head off_  
      _Ninety-eight hobbits cling to the wall…”_

Buttercup was down to thirty-seven poor hobbits when another noise rose above the wind and her singing. She stopped instantly. Azog? Some goblin? She couldn’t imagine any of her allies would be up here. 

Except maybe Westley. She’d told her pirate friend of her intentions to shadow Azog this day. Could he have come looking for her?

Cocking her head, she focused on the disturbance, her efforts thwarted by the confounded wind. She caught snatches, brief bursts of voices that seemed to originate high overhead. 

Then a sudden change of wind carried a familiar—and typically impatient—voice to her ear. _Thorin!_ Hot and cold flashes covered her skin in instant gooseflesh. He’d come! The dear, wondrously stubborn dwarf had come for her. 

Buttercup scraped her chin against rock in an effort to spot him. Up on the spur, an uncertain light flickered, one that moved the longer she stared at it. Then she saw a second. 

Torches. 

Another snippet came to her: “…abandon one of our own, Prince.” That, she thought, was Thorin at his grouchiest. By sound, his teeth were clenched. _Beloved dwarf._ Who was he…?

“…imply…unlikely to have survived…” _Ah. Legolas._

They came. How did they know? _Who cares how,_ she snapped at herself. _Dwarves. Here. Now would be a good time to do some yelling, you dope._

Ahem. A good thought. “I’m here! Down here!” She held her breath, staring up the rocky face of the cliff. 

“I hear her!” Was that Ori?

The glow of one torch neared. “Where?” she heard Thorin say in his most demanding voice. Instantly, she felt safer. 

“Over here,” Ori called. A second later, her youngest nadad’s boot tips appeared on the edge of the cliff, and his face above them. 

“Ori!” she yelled louder. 

Five faces appeared above: a grim-faced Thorin, a masked Westley, concerned Legolas, fretting Dori, fearful Ori, and wild-eyed Nori. Buttercup almost sagged into her cliff wall, her eyes filling with tears of relief. She was saved. She was…

Wait a minute. Where were they going? “No, no, no,” she said. Then louder, “I’m here! Nori, don’t go! Dori!”

They returned in a hurry. “She’s here, Thorin. I hear our burglar, but I’m not seeing her,” Nori said over one shoulder. Thorin came back into view. 

“The ring,” Ori burst. Then her youngest nadad shouted downward, “Buttercup, take off the ring! We can’t see you.”

“Ring?” she heard Legolas ask.

“I c-can’t, Ori,” she hollered back. “I can’t move.” Then she sneezed, almost lost her grip, and scrambled with a small cry for a better hold. Her cheek pressed to the rock wall. She gulped a huge inhale. “Thirty-six hobbits on the wall,” she muttered. 

A peek upwards showed a white-faced Ori fixing to climb down himself, rope or not, but Thorin stopped him. What the King under the Mountain said, she didn’t catch in a sudden burst of wind, but it was plain an argument brewed up there. The Ri brothers radiated outrage, Thorin donned his most severe king stance—the one that said he was done listening—and after a gesture, Westley and Legolas nodded. 

In a blink the two slender males lowered themselves over the edge and began their climb down. Legolas was the swifter of the two climbers, but Westley did not lag far behind. “Keep speaking, Buttercup,” the pirate admonished. 

Speaking. “Um. Your hair looks nice?”

The pirate snorted. “While I do appreciate the compliment, I don’t believe you’ve seen my hair.”

“A little of it,” she defended. Then with a weak grin, “How about I change it, then? _Legolas’s_ hair looks stunning.”

The elf startled. His smile flashed. “Are you well?” he asked as he neared her. 

“I don’t think I can m-move,” she told him. 

Legolas sidled closer, somehow sure footed despite their precarious positions. His right hand reached out and located her. “She’s cold,” he informed Westley.

The pirate’s lips firmed. He descended the last bit to her right. “It would aid things a great deal if we could see you,” he said.

“I imagine it would,” escaped her lips in a shrill tone. She couldn’t help it—Legolas’s arm wrapped around her her waist and attempted to hoist her into his grasp. Instead of helping, her fingers and toes dug in with all their might. They were not budging no matter what her idiot head said. 

“Trust me,” the elf urged, his face stark and sympathetic in the scant light reaching them from above. “You must let go. I will not let you fall.”

Ahem. Yes. Let go. She’d do…that. Any time now. Maybe? Oh, confound it. Her body flat-out rejected her commands. “I seem to be in difficulty.”

Legolas shifted until his body caged hers, his chest snug against her back. “Westley, your assistance, please.”

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. 

“It is well,” Legolas whispered back, a small smile on his face. “We saw Azog strike out at nothing, and we feared the worst. Have you been down here all this while?”

She nodded, her curls rasping against his tunic. 

The pirate picked his way closer until his shoulder pressed against Legolas’s.

“She cannot release her grasp,” Legolas explained quietly. “I will pass her to you.”

Westley nodded shortly. His eyes crinkled at the edges. “Quite the night for a nice climb, wouldn’t you say?”

Buttercup gaped, a little noise of disbelief escaping her.

“I wouldn’t say the conditions are perfect,” the pirate defended. “But the view from up here is truly spectacular.”

“You,” she gasped as Legolas forced her right hand from its moorings and to Westley. Her fist bunched in the pirate’s tunic, and her heart rapped out a panicked pattern on her breastbone. “You’re one of a kind, Westley.”

“I do strive to be,” he said, not missing a beat. “The world would be a much less colorful place were we all the same.”

Legolas wrenched her right leg free.

That proved to be impetus enough to convince her fool body to vacate its perch. With a low wail, Buttercup catapulted at the pirate, her arms circling his neck in a stranglehold. Her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Ready, then?” Westley asked in his mild, even voice. “Up we go.”

It was not so simple as that. Buttercup could feel the way Westley’s body strained during the climb. Once, a grip gave way on him. The man reacted instantly, scrambling for purchase as they slid down the mountain a good ten feet. 

The abrupt halt to their plummet made them both exhale shakily. “Let’s…not do that again,” she said.

“Agreed.” Westley’s lips twitched. “Well, that was exciting. Shall we try this again?”

“Without the falling,” Legolas said, reappearing at their left with terse expression. “I don’t believe your dwarves will survive another such scare.”

Two of them lifted their chins to check Legolas’s claims. “Perhaps if you remove the ring now?” Westley suggested. “It would assure them that I have not dropped you.”

Remove ring. Right. She carefully released her grip on the back of his tunic. With chin on his shoulder, she worried the ring loose. What to do with…? Bah. She put it in her mouth for safe keeping. Her hands were _not_ straying far enough from her hold to seek out a pocket. 

Westley climbed. This time, Legolas kept by their side, his body tense and ready to spring into action should Westley suffer another slip. 

Buttercup took back every negative thought she’d had towards the elf prince. He was not what she’d hastily concluded back in Mirkwood. Not at all. 

It was with relief that she felt big hands slide ender her armpits. A twist of the neck showed it was Thorin preparing to lift her from the pirate. “Haf’nt we done ‘is ’afore?” she managed around the gold band.

Thorin snorted. Her heart did this funny little flip-flop to see his lips twitch.

A second later, she squeaked as the dwarf hefted her with that (truly drool-worthy) strength of his. She got an eyeful of the steep drop off the edge of the cliff, then her favorite masculine chest. Her bare feet touched ground. She threw herself into the king’s arms. “’ou ‘ame for me,” she said. “You ca—” A cough. A swallow. Her eyes bulged. 

“In my madness, I banished you, Mas—Mistress Baggins. I will not fail so loyal a friend again,” Thorin said softly. 

Under other circumstances, she’d have melted into a pool of gushy Thorin-appreciation, but she was rather…consumed…with another matter. She pulled back. Her hands flew to her throat, her eyes wide. _Um._

Instantly, all four dwarves stiffened. “Buttercup?” Dori asked fretfully.

“What?” Thorin barked, hands to her upper arms. 

“I…” Blink. Blink. “I believe I’ve… I’ve quite swallowed my ring.” As her dwarves stared, dumbfounded, Buttercup’s focus rushed to Legolas. As the oldest soul on the ledge, he had to be the one to ask. “Ah, Legolas?”

The elf aided Westley to his feet before turning to her. 

“Swallowing a magic ring won’t…turn me into a toad or anything, will it?”

Legolas’s eyes widened considerably. Was that a yes? No? Blasted elf, why did he not speak? Just when she was ready to grab him and shake the answer out of him, the elf slowly smiled. “You swallowed your ring?”

Had she not said as much? “Yes,” she said, bobbing on her toes and flapping one hand. Then she sneezed. In a flash, she was squished between Ori and Dori. By their Maker, they gave off delicious heat. 

“So long as you did not choke, you should be fine,” the prince said gently. 

“You swallowed your ring? Why was it in your mouth?” Thorin asked.

Feeling her cheeks heat—would she ever manage to stand before him not blushing like a ninny?—she fidgeted with the hem of her tunic. “I had nowhere else in reach to store it.” She peeked upwards.

Was that a glint of amusement in her king’s eyes? 

She poked him in the chest. “Don’t laugh.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her, but confound him, he smirked. Smirked! 

Buttercup stamped one foot. “You, Thorin Oakenshield, are—” _Achoo!_ Chills rushed over her body, and her head turned woozy. 

Thorin’s blessedly warm palm came to her cheek. “She’s feverish.”

In a blink, the Ri brothers had her surrounded. Nori tucked his coat around her, and Dori swept her off her feet. 

“Let’s get off this mountain,” Thorin said. A worried glance turned her way. Through her hazy mind, all she could think was, _Thorin cares,_ with an inner squeal. 

His eyes widened. Oh. Had she said that aloud?

Groaning, she buried her face in Dori’s neck. Then another matter clamored for attention. Most emphatically. “Dori?” 

“Aye?”

A pause. “I need a tree.”


	13. Rings and Things

The next morning, Buttercup awoke with renewed purpose. She had a Plan, by the Shire, and this very day, she’d see it implemented. With a bit of luck, the other Breaker would be unmasked, and maybe, just maybe, she’d find a way to remove him quickly and repeatedly so that she and her friends could arrange things to the best possible outcome. 

That, she figured, would take time to map out, but if they did… _Oh,_ if they did, there would be less loss of life. Less heartbreak. 

And possibly…more time with Thorin? She quickly scolded that inner voice. _There are more important things than your nonexistent love life, Buttercup Baggins. Shame on you._

Her Took self relented after sticking out her tongue. Westley, it sniffed, would agree with _her._

Buttercup bopped her way into Erebor once Nori let her up onto the ramparts. She bussed his cheek, called him nadad, and skipped off to rouse Thorin. When he was sane and the others were assembled, she quickly said, “Let me explain.” A pause. “No. Too much. Let me sum up.” 

She flew through her tale with record speed, ignoring the not-so-soft sounds of disbelief emerging from her friends. She never could pinpoint just what it was that caused the differing reactions. Inflection? The words used? Either way, sometimes they believed her faster (and more completely) than others. For a day bent upon repeating itself, it was annoyingly full of variations. Who knew a simple change of words could have such a large effect? 

At the end, she turned to Ori. “I need your help this time, Nadad,” she said. “You know Black Speech, right?” She crossed her fingers. It all hinged on this—well, that and success with her ring, but that would come next.

Her youngest nadad blinked owlishly, a bit confused and flattered if she read him right. He tugged on his long sleeves. A faint hint of red stole into his cheeks. “I’m sorry Bilb—Buttercup.” His eyes met hers, filled with regret. “I don’t know Black Speech.” 

She deflated. “Oh.” 

Well, poop. There went her grand idea. If the Company’s scholar didn’t, who would? Buttercup stamped one foot in aggravation. 

She’d hoped to avoid consulting Thranduil. Yes, the elf had proved a better person than past interactions had colored him, but she’d rather have her nadad with her, thank you very much. What if the Elvenking got it into his head that _he_ was the best elf for the job? She’d be stuck with the intimidating elf all day, _every_ day, until the Breaker was found.

“Why would you ask Ori such a thing?” Thorin stepped closer, chin low and eyes all the bluer for their intensity. 

Buttercup rubbed her forehead. “Because finding our ‘Breaker’…” She tossed an irritated look Bofur’s way. Even if _this_ Bofur was ignorant, it had been he who had even her now using his modified term. (Bofur, for his part, blinked in bafflement as to why he was receiving such a look.) “…would be a whole lot easier if I could understand the orcs. I doubt our enemy’s Breaker will conveniently hold up a sign in Westron saying, ‘Here I am.’ I listened to Azog and his cronies hours yesterday…” No way was she sharing the cliff, the swallowing of her ring, and her bladder emergency. “…and if anything of use was said, I sure didn’t know about it. How am I supposed to learn anything if I can’t understand them?” 

She tapped fingernails against her teeth. Then she shook herself. “It’s no use. I’m going to have to ask the Elvenking for help.” _Confound it._ Her magnificent plan was acquiring so many holes, it looked ready to sink into the waters of oblivion. And she hadn’t even started experimenting with her ring yet! 

Thorin folded arms across his chest. “The Elvenking? Thranduil?” His eyes flashed dangerously.

Truly? He was going to take umbrage over this? She stomped to him, and her finger did its utmost to dent his (terribly and yummily masculine) chest. “Don’t you give me grief, Thorin Oakenshield,” she lectured. “I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got. You don’t like my ideas? _You_ live this day over and over. After you’ve done that a time or dozen, get back to me.”

One slightly messy black brow arched upwards. Somehow, it made him all the more rakishly handsome. _Not fair!_ She had enough on her plate without him doing that and destroying her ability to think coherently. 

With a growl, she hauled herself onto his boots with one hand to his jerkin. With the opposite hand, she smoothed the brow. There. That was better. 

She ignored the king’s flummoxed expression as she hopped down. Then toe-to-toe, she folded arms before her as if nothing had occurred and lifted her chin. “I’ve had at least a year now working with Thranduil. He’s not the most pleasant person, but he can be reasoned with. He’s been easier to convince than all of _you.”_ A pointed look at the Company, then back to Thorin. “We need him and his warriors, so you can put on your big-dwarf pants and suck it up.”

“A year?” Fíli echoed.

“Did she just put _Thranduil_ above us?” Ori whispered.

“Na,” Nori answered in kind. “She didn’t call him nadad.” Which seemed to appease Ori. Nori smirked and winked at her when her gaze crossed his.

Kíli, meanwhile, lifted her by her arms and set her behind him with a mildly alarmed look upon his face. _What in the Shire?_ “I’m sure she didn’t mean it quite so badly, Uncle,” he hurried to say.

Didn’t mean it that way? Buttercup made a scoffing noise. She did not say what she didn’t mean, thank you very much. “I most certainly did mea—”

Kíli clapped a hand over her mouth, his eyes warning. Then smiling at his uncle, “She’s overwrought. You must admit her story is…” 

She gasped in outrage and kicked the dark-haired dwarf’s ankle.

“Eventful,” Kíli finished.

Eventful, Buttercup sniffed, was acceptable. She aborted the second kick. 

Thorin stepped up to his younger sister-son and scooted him out of the way with an exasperated expression, exposing Buttercup to a hard stare. “A year?” Thorin asked.

Buttercup nodded jerkily. “Probably.” There went Thorin’s eyebrow again. _Drat it._ He was just too…too… _too!_

With a growl, she gave him her back. If she was being forced to argue with him, she wanted all her faculties about her, confound it. With arms folded across her chest, she told the opposite end of the room (and a startled Bofur since it was Bofur she now faced), “I’m only one hobbit, Thorin. While I appreciate your lofty opinion of my abilities, I think they might be a tad high.”

A peculiar silence. Heavy boots stepped closer until she could all but feel the dwarf breathing down on her. “Is there a reason you are telling this to Bofur?”

“He’s nicer,” she said, winking at the toymaker as his shoulders began to shake. Bofur reached up to dip his hat at her, the tease. 

_Time, Buttercup. Time!_ Oh yes. “Now where was I? That’s right. I can’t do it alone,” she told Bofur. “And quite frankly, I’d prefer to continue with your help, not behind your back. Since Ori can’t speak Black Speech, I have to ask for help outside the Company. Surely you can understand that.”

A heavy sigh. Two big hands turned her around, but she adamantly refused to glance at the dark-haired king. She had to win this argument and… Darn it! That eyebrow was adorably messy again!

“Look at me.”

“No,” she said, eyes scrunched shut. “You cheat.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You cheat.” She risked parting eyelids long enough to glare at him, felt her resolution weaken beneath his scrutiny, and slammed her eyes shut again. Blast him, he was so _regal_ and _handsome_ and she’d been kissing him too long to be immune when he looked like that. At this rate, if he commanded her not to seek the aid of the elves, she’d capitulate. 

She couldn’t capitulate!

“I…cheat.”

Oh, as if it wasn’t obvious. Buttercup chanced a second glare. _Nope, still handsome._ She stomped one foot. She abandoned hiding in favor of explaining. With one arm gesturing, she said, “You have that face, with that messy eyebrow _teasing_ me, and those shoulders, and…” 

Oh, when would she learn to keep her fool mouth shut? _Blush, blush, blush._ Too late now, however, to do aught else but charge onward. Ignoring the king’s incredulous look—and Kíli and Fíli’s dropped jaws—she said most emphatically, “Yes, Thorin Oakenshield, you cheat. It is entirely unfair for you to be so… _so_ …and expect a lass to keep a rational thought in her head.”

“Is that what this is?” Bofur sallied. “Rational thought?”

“Bofur, you are not helping,” she complained. Buttercup took a deep breath. _Brilliant. Maybe I could just drool next time. Save words and still get the message across: Buttercup Baggins is besotted with Thorin Oakenshield._

Bah! Truly, it was a good thing the day would start over. She’d salvage as much from this one as she could, but by the Shire, she’d never been more thankful that none but she would ever remember this moment. She vowed to never wedge her foot into her mouth this way again. 

_No,_ a part of her concluded sadly. _I’m sure I’ll find original and spectacularly embarrassing **new** ways to humiliate myself. _

Bother. Forcing herself back to business, she faced the dwarf directly, cheeks hot enough to bake a pie. “I can’t do this alone. Please. I don’t want to go behind your back, Thorin.”

“But you will,” he said, challenging her to deny it.

“But I will,” she agreed. “If I have to, I’ll wait until today starts over and go ahead without your permission, and without informing you of my intention. We have to find that Breaker. I’ve watched too many of you die to drop this.” 

She really, really, really didn’t want to proceed without her dwarves. It had been Thorin—and her brothers—who had come after her when she’d run into trouble the night before. Without them, she knew she would have soiled herself and gone splat all over the mountainside. 

Possibly at the same time. 

_Not possibly. Definitely._

_Oh, hush._

“I can’t believe we’re listening to this,” Dwalin groused. 

Ori bristled, but it was the Thorin’s heir who spoke first. “She knew how to free Uncle,” Fíli contested softly. “She knew exactly where those weapons she wears were. No pause. No hesitation, and she spoke Khuzdul. Look at her Dwalin. This is no jest.”

With a lifted hand, Thorin ended the debate before it could intensify—and from the expressions on many a face, her dwarves all had an opinion to voice. Thorin stared down at her, his gaze speculative. 

He reached a conclusion; she could see it in his eyes. With the barest smirk, he said, _“Ashdautas vrasubatlat.”_

Thorin knew Black Speech.

OoOoOo

“What was it you said to me?” Buttercup tossed over her right shoulder.

Before her companion could answer, her attention returned to the land before them. She chose their path with care, her steps light and her feet diligent in seeking out potential obstacles for Thorin’s heavier boots. They were moving among the rear of the orc army, weaving among stragglers, but even thinner numbers equaled danger should one of them dislodge a stone or snap a fallen branch. 

Buttercup’s left hand was extended awkwardly behind her, linked to Thorin’s left by virtue of the ring circling both their pinkie fingers. After much testing, they’d discovered the only way to extend the ring’s influence was to both wear it. 

She would have enjoyed the contact—okay, a part of her _did,_ and no doubt—if only the events in the mountain preceding their exit had not occurred. She glanced back at the ring and frowned.

Buttercup had believed that since the ring rendered not only herself but what she wore and carried as invisible, so too would it work to lend the ring to one of her dwarves (in this case Thorin) and have him carry her. After discussing it with Thorin, they’d decided to give it a try while the rest of the Company departed to arm themselves for the battle soon to arrive. 

The first sign all would not unfold as Buttercup had imagined transpired when Thorin lifted the ring from her palm. Buttercup’s ring, her simple magic ring, had _grown,_ by the Shire. Like yeasted dough set out to rise. Metal! (How could metal _do_ that?)

Buttercup had stared, nonplussed, but Thorin had stiffened until he more resembled one of Thror’s statues. His eyes blazed as he rotated the ring between two fingers, and to her growing disquiet, it seemed _something_ popped into being within those eyes of his and deepened the longer he stared at the simple band. 

He looked…dangerous. Covetous. _Possessive._

Chills had skittered down her spine. She’d hauled herself onto his boots, grabbed his beard in both hands and yanked his face to her level. “Thorin?” She searched his face anxiously. By Yavanna, if her ring was hurting Thorin, she’d destroy it. How, she wasn’t certain just yet, but surely Dwalin and Balin would have some good ideas. 

Thorin had growled low, his eyes slow to tear from the ring. But when their gazes met, she found his clear if tumultuous. “Your ring is no benign thing.”

Irritation had flared, and affront. In a snippy voice, she said, “Give it back.”

His eyes had hooded. “Do you trust me?”

Buttercup blinked up at him, her miff utterly forgotten. “Of course I do.” 

A searching look. A low grunt. “This ring, Mistress Baggins, attempts to stir the dragon-sickness within me.” 

What? In a flash, she was prying at his fingers to wrench the wretched thing from him. It couldn’t have Thorin. She would _not_ lose her dwarf again to dragon-sickness. 

Thorin’s hand closed around the ring, and the opposite alighted gently atop hers, halting her struggles. “It will not succeed,” he said. “I will never again succumb to the Sickness,” he said. Yet, underneath the denial, she detected a kernel of uncertainty. 

“Give it over,” she’d growled with a goodly dose of her own fright, yanking harder on his hold. 

He stared. Just stared.

_Oh, no, you are not._ Her temper fired hotter than any forge as it hit her why he was being such a blockhead. The confounded fool was testing himself. If the ring threatened him with dragon-sickness, he determined to pit his will against it. 

The beloved idiot truly feared succumbing to gold-sickness again. A shocking realization, but it shouldn’t have been. Thorin was a contained and controlled soul—all, she thought with a teeny touch of humor, but his temper. Of _course_ he’d do this. If there was a chance he’d grow sick again, he’d want to know about it. And more, he’d probably walk out of the mountain and never return, leaving all to Fíli if he concluded it possible. 

Not if she had aught to say about it. 

Her anger fled, leaving her with a heart aching for his doubts. She stopped trying to rip the ring from him. Instead, she reached up with her right hand and drew his forehead to hers. Their eyes locked, his faintly startled. “Thorin Oakenshield, you will never fall to dragon-sickness again. If you dare try it, by your Mahal, I will drag you out kicking and screaming.” 

Those beautiful blue eyes had churned with as many emotions as Erebor’s treasury had coins. “Why?” he’d demanded at last, his voice drenched in self-loathing. “Why would you risk so much when in my madness, I banished you? I attempted to throw you from the battlements, Bilbo.”

He’d done more than that, but she locked the knowledge away where he wouldn’t detect it. “Buttercup,” she reminded him lightly. She drew back, her hand sliding down his face to his shoulder and likely betraying a whole lot more than she’d intended. _Bother._ She supposed it little mattered after her performance earlier. “Because you are my friend.” 

The tension slowly melted from his frame as they stared into one another’s eyes. Then, he inexplicably snorted, his lips twitching. “Do you kiss all of your friends?”

Bam! There when her cheeks again. _(Sigh.)_ “Only those in need of a good shock,” she managed. Then nudging him, she said, “You’re too obstinate to let a little thing like dragon-sickness pull you under for long. If I hadn’t interfered, you’d have won free on your own.”

He’d stared for a long moment, thoughts burbling behind his eyes. After a somber dip of the head, he’d said, “I will not forget your loyalty. Nor fail to appreciate such friendship, and it is in that spirit I tell you: you must be more careful with this ring. Tell me you will not continue to use the accursed thing so blithely.”

A part of her flared in resentment. The ring was _hers._ It had saved them more than once. It was _her_ choice when or if to use it, not his. 

But.

Her ring had tried to hurt Thorin. That was like icy water in the face. For the first time, she questioned it. What did she really know about the thing? The memory of Gollum crept up, and she shivered with sudden unease. “I swear, I’ll only use it when necessary.” By Yavanna, she meant it.

Thorin’s nod was short, satisfied.

Distrust the ring or not, however, neither could escape the fact that without it, their hope to spy on Azog was doomed. Despite the risk, to find their enemy Breaker they had to use it. 

So it was they set about finding a way to extend the ring’s ability to cloak to two, for while Thorin could use the ring to listen in on enemy chatter, he would not relive this day. Buttercup had to be with him to clap eyes on her foe. Otherwise, what use would his knowledge be? As charming a sight as she was sure Azog would find it, she suspected going up to each orc or goblin and asking if he was the one Thorin meant would not end well.

Buttercup watched her dwarf like a hawk as Thorin slipped the ring onto his finger. He vanished. That worked as expected. But when he lifted her into his arms, she did not disappear from view. “Are you…?”

“Well,” he said gruffly. “Your plan seems not to work.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” she said, tossing a grin up where his head should be. “Um…” An idea occurred to her. “Hold still.” 

By feel, she located his coat. Then ignoring the ecstatic jumping and squealing a part of her insisted on doing (if only privately), she wiggled under it. Thorin must have discerned her intent, for he helped by sealing the warm coat around her.

It didn’t work. The confounded coat remained invisible while one irritated hobbit did the opposite. _(Grumble, grumble.)_

Holding hands likewise failed, as did Buttercup wearing the ring and Thorin wrapping himself around her like a cloak. (She could not contain a wee wiggle of joy at that. Or a giggle. It earned her a sharp look from Thorin but… Well, she was only a hobbit. Who could resist?)

In the end, Thorin solved their problem. By holding the ring to the tip of his thumb, Thorin coaxed the blighted thing to widen. Then in unison, they thrust their smallest fingers through the ring’s center before it could shrink.

“Hoo-wee, and pass the pie,” she cheered, beaming up at a ring-bleached Thorin.

Her smile stiffened as, before her words faded, the ring pulsated with malice. It was fleeting, it was intangible, but there was no mistaking it. 

_So it’s a sore loser. Duly noted,_ a part of her offered in a hollow attempt at humor. 

The rest of her stared at her ring-encased pinkie while pinpricks of aversion prickled up and down her arms. If she’d doubted Thorin’s word (she hadn’t), they were dispelled. 

Her ring? It was Bad News, and no doubt.

OoOoOo

Thorin abruptly slowed. They’d been walking for close to two hours now, skirting the heaviest knots of fighting and groups of orcs rushing about—at Azog’s command, Buttercup assumed. The enemy’s movements made no sense to her, but Thorin watched intently.

The two of them had gained altitude, slowly making their way along the Lonely Mountain’s flank towards the spur, but at Thorin’s lagging pace, Buttercup glanced back to find the king glancing at the battlefield. Tension seeped into the finger squashed up against hers. Tension caused by worry, she knew, for down below and at Thorin’s command, her love’s sister-sons had taken leadership of both the Company and Dain’s warriors. 

Fíli and Kíli had been shocked. And, to Buttercup’s mind, humbled. If the two had harbored any doubts of their uncle’s faith in them, they ended there. Elves and dragons, when the two had led the Company from the mountain, they’d had such a swagger to their gaits as she’d never seen before. 

“Can you see th—?” Just then, a group of orcs raced by. Buttercup hastily stepped back until she was squished up against Thorin, her back to his chest. Using their conjoined limbs, Thorin circled her with one strong arm, his body taut. When one of the orcs ran right at them, the king hefted her off her feet and stepped them out of its path.

The moment the orcs had passed, Thorin leaned down…and his _lips_ brushed her _ears. (Yavanna, not the ears!)_ In a breathy whisper, he said, “From whence will Azog come? That rise over there?” 

A pause. A confused look down upon her.

_Just a half a minute,_ a part of her shrilled. 

_Mercy, mercy._ Buttercup fanned herself, decidedly not in any condition to answer. The heat of his breath—on her _ear,_ by the Shire—had sent shivers of delight coursing through her body that continued to echo joyously along her nerves. _Sweet Yavanna._ If his breath could do that, she didn’t dare imagine what lips would do. Just entertaining the notion threatened to catapult her into a full-on swoon. 

Her fanning hand increased in speed. That settled it: Thorin Oakenshield was one potent cocktail.

“Mistress Baggins?”

“Ears.” By the Shire, was that breathy, squeaky voice hers? She would have been mortified, but she was otherwise occupied. Her joints seemed to have lost structure, for she couldn’t help but sag against the dwarf. Embarrassing!

_And enjoyable,_ her inner hoyden declared. 

To which her Baggins self clucked its tongue. _Hussy,_ it sang warningly. And it was right, curse it. Bilbo would be horrified. She was horrified! 

Somewhat. 

Thorin startled. She felt the press of his scrutiny upon her face.

_You pull yourself together right this instant, Buttercup Baggins! This. Instant!_ “V-very s-s-sensitive,” she said in that same, high-pitched, cracking voice. Averting her eyes, she managed to stand upon wobbly knees. _That decides me,_ she thought with a measure of desperation. _From now on, a hat is required when in Thorin’s vicinity._ Especially if there was any chance he’d do such a scandalous thing like _whisper in her ear_ again.

_Mercy._

Thorin stared, and slowly, both eyebrows scaled his forehead until they touched his hairline. A glint appeared in his eyes, one she was more accustomed to seeing from Kíli. She braced herself, but Thorin proved more merciful than his nephew. Instead of commenting, he changed the subject. Directing her attention forward with a bob of the chin, he said, “Azog.”

Az—what? _Oh. Yes._ She gave the hem of her tunic a good yank. “Higher on the spur,” she said, happy to hear her normal voice returned to her. 

A cough and some throat clearing, and she stepped forward, castigating herself. Westley’s eternal romanticism, she feared, was getting to her. Thorin was a _king._ She was just a hobbit. She had to keep remembering that. This fawning over him was totally unacceptable. 

_He’s still male,_ her Tookish self stubbornly insisted. _King or pauper, he deserves to be loved._ Buttercup stole a glance at the dwarf from beneath her lashes. 

He did, indeed. By the Shire, it was so. But by a lass more worthy than her. Thorin deserved everything.

They skirted another group of orcish troops, the air around them clogged with suspense. Grass gave way to prickly weeds, and those in turn to rock. “On the spur?” Thorin asked.

“Yes,” she said. 

“The words I used,” he said just above the wind’s muted roar, “are an orc’s greeting. Roughly translated, they mean ‘I will not kill you today.’”

Buttercup’s head whipped around. _“Ashdatis vras_ -something? I won’t kill you… _t-today?”_

Thorin’s lips twitched. His head dipped in agreement. “Close. It’s _ashdautas vrasubatlat.”_

She mouthed the syllables. “That’s… That’s wretched,” she decreed, shaking her head and facing forward. 

“I would not argue that. They are a people with no natural affection.”

Apparently not. Orcs. They defied belief.

It was at least another hour before they reached their destination and Buttercup signaled to her co-conspirator. Where, she wanted to know, was Azog? At Thorin’s questioning look, she shrugged her confusion. 

Thorin led them to one side, and there they hunkered down to wait, Thorin just behind Buttercup. Both divided their attention between the battle raging on the fields below as well as the too-empty spur. “He’s late?” she hazarded to guess.

“Azog is never late,” Thorin murmured, careful to keep his distance from her ear. “If he has an adviser like you, he has altered his plans according to its reports of the previous day. Stay alert.”

He needn’t tell her twice. 

Time passed. They watched as the dwarves coordinated with a segment of elves led by a red-haired elf maiden (Tauriel, Buttercup assumed) to cut off and annihilate a group of goblins heading for Dale’s western walls. Though Buttercup could not find Fíli or the Company among their kindred, her heart cheered for them. 

That was when the ROUSes burst from the soil east of Dale and began their scurry towards the town. Buttercup again felt Thorin’s eyes upon her—likely from the way she flinched—but she could not tear her gaze away. A fine tremor claimed her, and Thorin’s right hand settled upon her lower back. “I thought it was Nori who feared rodents,” he said lightly.

A deeper shudder shook her. She’d avoided the ROUSes since finishing her training. Manically. Elves and dragons, she could still feel their teeth gnawing and… 

She swallowed heavily, desperately wrenching her thoughts from that memory. 

Thorin’s light tone vanished. “You spoke of the rats’ arrival. You did not tell me everything,” he said flatly.

No, she hadn’t. “Limited time,” she said, avoiding the underlying question. “There’s been too much, Thorin. If I tried to tell you the full of it…” Her head turned to toss him a tired look. “…we’d never make it out of the mountain.” 

Her focus returned to the battle. Men led by a forewarned Bard ignited all that wonderful whiskey which they’d poured into Dale’s old aqueduct system, creating a fiery barrier the rats must cross to reach Dale’s most vulnerable citizens. 

“A year, you said.” 

For a second, she didn’t follow. Then her mind connected his statement with her previous. She nodded. “Probably. Maybe. I don’t really know. I try not to know.”

What he was about to say in return, she didn’t learn. Sound tickled her ears. That of pebbles bouncing across rock. From…below? 

Buttercup rose to her feet, scanning the spur’s gentler, forward thrusting slope that descended to the fields below. Better behaved, that side of the mountain. Instead of sheer drops, it had the good manners to allow a person to walk up its length with little difficulty.

“What is it?” Thorin asked, rising more slowly. 

His eyes and ears, she knew from their quest, were not so sharp as hers. So it was Buttercup who got the first glimpse of the problem headed their way. 

_Uh-oh?_

Goblins marched up the spur in a line, a full two dozen of them. The way they were aligned, they left no space between them or to either side, and worse, they tossed fist-sized rocks off either side of the spur at regular intervals. Her skin prickled. Another sound had her whipping in the other direction. High above their position, Azog stepped into view with more goblins. In the same arrangement. 

“The sneeze,” she whispered. Somehow, some way, Azog had emerged from the encounter suspecting he had a lurker. One he’d failed to find. By Yavanna, she’d never dreamed the orc was _this_ paranoid. 

A big hand closed around her forearm, a silent demand. Bobbing on her feet, she tossed Thorin an apologetic look, begging for his forgiveness. “Thorin? I may have made a slight miscalculation.” As his eyes narrowed, she said, “I sneezed. Yesterday. While spying on Azog. They didn’t find me,” she hurried to say. “I climbed down the cliff. I thought they’d dismissed it as the wind or an animal, but…”

“But?” he asked in a hard voice.

She winced. “They’re searching the spur,” she said weakly. “And the cliffs. For me, I think. Azog must know by now our side has its own Breaker, and if he suspects it was the person spying on him…”

“Who else would be so keen to spy upon him?” Thorin asked harshly. “A miscalculation? Azog takes no risks, Mistress Baggins.” Instantly, he was in full Thorin-in-Charge mode, leaning back to survey the cliff behind him and then scouring the spur with blazing eyes. A tick appeared in his left cheek. 

A realization struck her as she watched him. By his Maker, she would die for this dwarf. She’d do it an not regret it for an instant. A swift decision was made, one that carried with it a wealth of tenderness. 

Thorin had risked the cliffs of the Misty Mountains to save her from a fall when her fingers and toes had been so storm-numbed that her death had seemed imminent. Though climbing was not one of his strong points, he’d chanced a fall as perilous as this. For her. While she’d yet been an unwelcome hindrance to his quest. 

_I really don’t want to do this,_ a part of her wished it to be known. 

She less wanted to watch Thorin die again, this time because of a mistake _she’d_ made. Her eyes searched the spur until she found a fold in the rock as tall as her hip. It was a good twenty yards from her, but she thought it would suffice. _If_ she acted quickly enough. 

“Climb down, Thorin,” she whispered. “There’s a foothold in reach. There, you see it?” She prodded him. “Please, you have to hurry.”

He glared, his body tall and tense. “When this is finished, Mistress Baggins, we will be having words about assumptions.”

She nodded hurriedly. “Yes, yes, I know. Bad hobbit. No pie for me. Down, Thorin.”

With a hard, blue glare snapping up at her, Thorin painstakingly lowered himself over the edge. Their conjoined fingers twisted uncomfortably low to the ground. Buttercup sprawled on her belly as he descended, whispering instructions on where next to put his foot, then his right hand. 

In less than a minute, Thorin’s head was level with the top of the cliff. There, he halted. “Now you.”

Buttercup smiled. Not warning him, she leaned down and kissed him full on the mouth, her right hand to his cheek. “You, Thorin Oakenshield, are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” Her finger stilled his words, but his eyes were wide and intent. “I love you. I’ll always love you.” A second smile accompanied a second tap of that finger. “Hush. I don’t expect anything in return. I’m well aware that you are far above me. I just thought you should know. One day out of all of them, you should know you are loved, that one person thinks the moon and sun were hung in the sky above for your pleasure.”

Her smile vanished, and she held his gaze steadily. “You won’t remember this day, but I will. I cannot watch you die again, Thorin. Not while there is breath in me. You will forget this, though I know it will pain you in the short term. Close your eyes. This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“What do you—” he began to demand. 

She stopped his words with a second hard kiss, finding boldness in knowing what likely lay ahead. Then with a last, lingering glance, she slipped her finger from the ring. “Stay down. I’ll distract them from you.”

“Baggins,” he hissed, but she was gone, crawling low to that nob of rock. Azog, she determined, would not get his hands on Thorin. No this day. Not any day. 

Buttercup remained in hiding, fingernails tapping upper teeth, until she was confident Azog and his goblins were near enough to see her. A prickle at the back of her neck told her Thorin watched, though she hoped for his sake she was wrong. 

This was going to make him sooo mad. _So long as he stays put,_ she thought, _I don’t care._

It was time. _One. Two._ A deep inhale. _Three!_ She dashed across the spur as if suddenly spotting the goblins. Azog roared in his grating tongue, and goblins charged, forsaking their formation— _Hoo-wee and pass the pie, that worked!_ Buttercup feigned debilitating panic as she jumped up and down, flapping her hands like a ninny. She eyed the cliff wall down the western edge of the spur as if debating making her escape that way. 

Not likely. _This_ hobbit wasn’t too keen on attempting the climb again, especially with haste and with goblins tossing rocks down upon her, though a niggling suspicion said it would still be vastly preferable to what was coming. She pretended indecision until it was too late to try climbing. Then, she drew her glowing sword, faced the enemy—those downhill, thank you very much—and charged.

Azog shouted after her, the words plainly commands as the lower group of goblins dumped their rocks in unison and readied their weapons. _Oh, Buttercup, I don’t think this is a good idea. Perhaps we should rethink this?_

Too late. She slammed into the lower goblin ranks. Sting stabbed left, then right, and she moved as Nori had taught her, always attempting to keep one goblin between herself and others. It went well. _Too_ well. Why, with all of them and only one of her, she should be bleeding by now.

Unless they were completely inept.

_Wait a minute._ They held back. The more she searched for it, the more proof she found. The dark-skinned monsters fought her, but they didn’t go for killing blows when she knew her guard was open—she couldn’t possibly block them all at once. 

Delaying. Elves and dragons, they were keeping her occupied until Azog arrived.

An event that happened entirely too soon. One second she was fighting them, the next she scrambled to block a hard jab from behind. One from Azog’s bladed prosthesis.

The goblins backed away, leaving her to face Azog himself with her sword in a two-handed grip. 

Forcing a wobbly grin to her lips, she said, _“Ashdautas vrasubatlat.”_

Azog’s eyes flared. Then, he spat, _“Snaga nar baj lufut._ I remember you, _snaga._ Where are your dwarf masters? Hiding from me?”

“On the battlefield,” she growled back. “Where you would be if you weren’t such a coward.” Instantly, _Oh, shut up, you fool! What are you doing?_ Had she suddenly turned into Bofur? 

There was zero amusement on Azog’s face. His lips peeled back in a snarl. “You will scream for me.”

Maybe. Well, yes, probably. She crossed one foot over the other as they circled. Elves and dragons. What to do? _Well, prolonging it isn’t going to help._

Fortune favored the bold, or so the saying went. Buttercup charged with a shout. _Dumb. This is so very, very—_

_Clang._ His bladed prosthesis hit her sword with enough force to tear it from her grip. She lunged after it, rolling and returning to her feet. _You can do better than this._ She’d do Nori proud before she died. By his Maker, she would.

Buttercup and Azog exchanged a handful of blows. This time, she didn’t even attempt to match the orc. She used Sting to deflect, never block. The exchanges reinforced what she already knew: she was hopelessly outclassed. 

Azog struck hard. Buttercup slid beneath his blade, using Sting to keep it away from her body. Another fast slice, and she rolled to one side, returning to her feet in one fluid motion. _Thank you, Kíli._ He’d spent weeks drilling her to do that. 

On and on they played, and that, Buttercup knew, was the proper word for it. _Played._ Azog toyed with her. She had some skill—she was no longer the bumbling novice he’d faced the first time—but Azog had centuries worth of combat under his belt. He was bigger. Stronger. And he was mad at her. 

Then came that moment she knew would arrive. Azog tired of their game. With a suddenness that shocked her, he had Sting locked with his prosthesis. A twist and her sword went skittering across the spur until it fell off the edge. Buttercup drew her daggers. 

“You still think to best me?” Azog growled, his humor restored, but it was a dark, bloodthirsty flavor of humor. Buttercup trembled. “Try,” he cajoled. “Come, halfling. Fight me.” 

Buttercup did just that. The charade had to be complete. Azog had to believe her alone. He had to believe her caught in his net without any recourse. 

He could not suspect Thorin… _Wait._ There were fewer goblins. Elves and dragons, she would throttle the dwarf herself! Why could he not hide like…?

_Whoa!_ She ducked, feeling Azog’s mace brush the curls on the crown of her head. With clenched teeth, she focused on the fight. Thorin was out of her control. Stubborn dwarf.

Buttercup used the landscape—reminded of Nori and the library—vaulting onto and off of boulders. As when sparring with Nori and Fíli, she relied upon agility and swiftness to counter Azog’s superior reach and strength. 

He slashed open her cheek, but she gouged his hale arm from elbow to wrist. He kicked her hard in the belly and sent her flying backwards, but she hurriedly rolled beneath his leap as he pursued her. She left a dagger hilt-deep in his thigh as she passed.

It was inevitable that he would win. She hadn’t doubted it, though when she lost her last dagger to his mace, her fingers almost taken with it, she managed to squeak in one shot with her bow before he closed with her. Azog whacked the arrow aside with his bladed arm.

Then, he was on her. 

The bow and quiver were ripped from her. _Please, Thorin. Please, please, please stay hidden._ Azog yanked her off of her feet by the throat. She clutched his wrist in a desperate search for leverage. 

He pulled her close until his putrid breath blasted her face. “When this day replays, creature, I will hunt you. I will disembowel you before your dwarves and eat your entrails.”

Well. That…was icky. 

A flick of the wrist, and she flew backwards into the goblins’ midst. Buttercup and two others hit the ground hard. “Bring her,” Azog commanded.

Buttercup…was brought.


	14. Miscalculation #2

Azog and his goblins prodded Buttercup to a pained run up the spur using spear tips to her back. They’d noticed their diminished numbers, but if she had to guess, they were terrified to say anything to Azog about it. Instead, they took their anger out on her. 

_Thorin._ She hid her smirk. If not for the mithril shirt, she expected she’d have been bleeding like stuck pig, (A part of her wildly wondered about that for a second. Who would stick a pig, and more importantly _why?_ What had a pig ever done to anyone?) but with that armor, the worst she suffered was bruises.

So far. 

They reached the apex of the spur where it joined the rest of the Lonely Mountain and journeyed part way down its back. Rock gave way to snow. They followed a wide path of slushy, dirty snow, proof many feet had passed this way. This, she deduced, was the way Bolg’s forces had come earlier. And this, she discovered, was their destination. Within a craggy offshoot, a cave lurked. 

A cave containing the missing goblin king, a half dozen of its underlings, and three hugely muscular orcs, she learned when she was shoved inside. 

“Search her,” Azog commanded, and instantly, sharp, grasping fingers tore at her clothes. First went her brother’s dingy yellow tunic, then the mithril shirt, leaving her in only a thin chemise. 

Buttercup shook with both cold and fear. Bad enough to be stripped before an audience. To happen in front of potentially hobbit-eating goblins? 

_Not potential,_ her Baggin’s side pointed out as one narrow-faced creature eyed her hungrily. 

She hugged her torso, shivering in her pants and chemise. 

A commotion suddenly arose around her mithril shirt. One goblin tugged at it while another tried to tear it from its grip. More joined in. In a blink, she was forgotten…by all but Azog, who stepped down on her when she tried to crawl away. 

“That shiny shirt is mine,” Azog snarled, putting an immediate halt to the bickering. He reached forward with one hand and ripped it from three goblins’ resisting grasps. 

Azog held it up for inspection, his foot pressing down harder when Buttercup again wiggled. The breath rushed from her lungs. _Bother._ This was not working out so well. She managed a shallow wheeze of an inhale.

The goblin king stepped forward. What the sharp-chinned creature said, she hadn’t any idea, but his outstretched arm and demanding stance implied he, too, argued for the shirt. Azog loomed above the diminutive king, using his superior stature to intimidate. She had to give the goblin king grudging points—the sly-faced creature never cowered. 

Back and forth, they snarled, the goblin king pointing at another goblin. (What? Was he offering to trade the goblin for it?) The goblin king snapped out a string of words resounding with conviction. Azog slashed one hand through the air in denial. 

With his prosthesis. 

Beheading the former sovereign.

The remaining goblins stared. As one, their faces hardened. _Bad idea, Azog,_ Buttercup thought. _Very bad idea._

Then again, who in his right mind would take on Azog? Her mind replayed the last hour. _Oh. That’s right._

One goblin strutted forward and claimed his slain king’s scepter. When Azog shook his head in disgust, it pointed the bony thing at him and shouted a charge—she needed no translation to understand. That fast, the creatures were at each others’ throats. Blades slashed. Spears thrust. The cave echoed deafeningly with roars, snarls, and yelps. 

_Time to leave,_ she concluded as a crude falchion slammed down against the floor to her right. _This_ hobbit knew when she’d overstayed her welcome. 

Buttercup slithered backward the instant Azog lunged forward. Back and back, she eased, until suddenly, a hard chest was behind her. A hand slapped over her mouth. A breathy, “Quiet,” sent Thorin-shivers through her body. 

He reached for her left hand and jammed her pinkie back into the ring. For a split-second, they were both visible, and together, they held their breaths, Thorin’s grasp on her painfully tight. 

Then Thorin moved. Instead of pulling them towards the cave’s exit, he eased them deeper into its dark maw until they reached the rearmost wall. There, he crouched, left arm locking Buttercup to his side and right hand holding his ax defensively. His jaw, she cringed to see, had that tick to it, the one that said his Durin temper approached its limit. One good push, and it would erupt spectacularly. 

She mouthed, “I had to,” to him, but instead of pacifying her dwarf, it caused that tick to vibrate at a faster tempo. Buttercup lifted her free hand and stroked that spot, hoping to soothe it. 

It earned her Thorin’s instant and full attention. 

“Thank you,” she mouthed next, and that, at least, he accepted with a curt nod. When she shivered, he cuddled her closer, tucking her within his heavy—and blissfully warm—coat. 

They stayed that way. Through the completion of the fight when Azog and his sole remaining orc held the last living goblin aloft—the one its king had offered up earlier. Through the realization that in the fight, Azog had misplaced his prisoner and the ensuing tantrum Azog threw (there went the last goblin). Through Azog’s snarls. The Defiler commanded the last orc out of the cave, and it left. 

Then Thorin, being Thorin, slowly stood to his full height. Though Buttercup shook her head wildly, he set her aside. His stern glare said she’d _better_ heed him and stay behind him.

Thorin prowled forward. It was the only word for the slow, predatory steps carrying towards his most hated enemy. His lips curled in a wordless snarl. Then Thorin Oakenshield of the line of Durin slammed that ax—that blessedly _wonderful,_ truly stupendous ax—into Azog’s chest with all the strength in him. Azog crashed to the cave floor, eyes wild until Thorin ripped the ring from his finger. And Buttercup’s. 

How Azog clung to life with the ax lodged in his ribcage, Buttercup didn’t know, but she bet herself a full boysenberry pie—someday—that he wouldn’t stay that way long. Not with Thorin looming over him with death in his eyes.

“Allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. You, filth, murdered my grandfather. According to my burglar, you slew my _sister-sons._ Prepare to die.” With one tremendous wrench, the ax was free. Another downward swing smashed deep where Azog’s heart had to be, and the Defiler was no more.

At least for this day.

The fierce triumph on Thorin’s face, the knowledge of victory and revenge, propelled her forward. Buttercup threw her arms around the dwarf and squeezed him tight. 

Thorin snorted softly, one hand ruffling her hair. 

Then he said the most romantic thing she’d ever heard. “See this goblin?” He tilted her around by the shoulders. 

“The grossly disemboweled goblin? Yes, hard to miss.”

“Remember him. He’s your Breaker, Mistress Baggins.”

“Oh, _Thorin,”_ she squealed, bounding on her feet with hands clasped before her. At his startled look, she gushed, “Most girls only get flowers.”

A second, equally startled look. Then the King under the Mountain barked in laughter. Once. A second time. The ax relaxed to his side and he leaned over, hands to knees as his mirth poured out. 

She bussed his cheek and then carried her Time-Altering self over to inspect the face of her nemesis, tiptoeing around pools of black blood. _Ick._ He was a short, rotund thing with a snout-ish nose, a bald pate, and skin a truly sickly green. “So it wasn’t Azog after all,” she murmured.

Thorin stepped to her right side, his dripping ax propped over his shoulder—the _opposite_ shoulder, thankfully. “No, it was not.”

“You, Thorin Oakenshield, are good luck,” she declared. “Who’d have thought we’d find him on the first try?”

OoOoOo

Buttercup quickly retreated a step when Thorin slowly turned towards her, his face darkening. _Uh-oh?_ What? What had she said? For sure as rain, the red face, the tight jaw, and the ticking cheek muscle blared _Warning! Warning!_

Oh. Right. Given her actions this day, she should have expected this. Thorin was way past due for an eruption.

 _Ahem._ Well. This hobbit knew better than to…

Her abrupt dash for the exit came to an equally abrupt halt. A fist dragged her backwards by her waistband, her feet skidding across stone and dirt floor. _Next time, Buttercup Baggins, run faster._

A metallic clang announced when Thorin permitted the ax to drop at his booted feet. Two big hands grasped her by the shoulders and turned her until she stared at her king’s chest. For once, it failed to move her. Possibly because of the Glare of Imminent Doom blasting down upon her. 

“Mistress Baggins, would you care to explain yourself?” he asked, his voice tight. 

One foot folded over the other, and she ducked her chin. She’d known he’d be wroth with her actions. She just hadn’t expected to survive them long enough to face his ire. Another _huge_ miscalculation on her part.

“Well?” he barked, startling her into a jump

Her eyes flew to his and found them showing more whites than she’d anticipated. As his glare threatened to sear the skin off her body, Buttercup’s own temper rumbled to life. She poked him in the chest with one finger. “Don’t use that tone of voice with me, Thorin Oakenshield. I’ve had a trying day.”

“Of your own creation,” he snapped.

“I was trying to keep you safe,” she blasted up at him, fists upon her hips and chin lifted. “You won’t remember this. If I’d died, you wouldn’t have remembered it past ten tonight, while _I?_ I would have had the image of you bloody and broken to haunt me along with every other miserable memory I’ve acquired during this nightmare!”

“You expect me to watch and do nothing?” he roared with sufficient force to blow hair out of her face. 

She stomped one foot, beyond aggravated. Why could the dwarf not understand so simple a concept? “I’ve died before,” she shouted back. “Dozens of times. Trust me, it’s not all as permanent as its chalked up to b—”

Lips slanted down upon hers without warning, and a big arm smushed her against a broad and muscular chest. It was exquisite. It was _Thorin,_ and she melted in his grasp.

Then it was over. The dwarf stiffened, then released her hastily, his eyes wide and chest heaving.

Buttercup gasped for breath, one hand to her chest. Thorin had kissed her. Then a thought: he sure didn’t seem ecstatic over it. Was that regret? _Of course it’s regret, you ninny. You goaded him._

_I did no such thing!_

_You did._

_No, I didn’t._

_You’ve been throwing yourself at him all day!_

There, she struck a nerve. Buttercup cleared her throat and tried to find something to say to fill the void. Her mind drew a blank. What _did_ one say in such circumstances? Would a note suffice? _Oh dear. Dear, dear, dear._

Without a word, she silently knelt to retrieve her mithril shirt. Then, she sifted among the goblin bodies until she found a pair of daggers of a size she could use for the rest of the day. Night? 

She frowned and checked the cave’s entrance. _Sunset,_ she determined. That meant this wretched day had hours left to it before Thorin would forget it ever happened. 

It couldn’t happen soon enough for her.

“Mistress Baggins,” Thorin broached  
.  
Inwardly, she winced. He wasn’t even using her given name now? _Not_ a good sign. 

A heavy sigh from him drew her eyes. The king looked wearied with one hand to his brow. Meeting her eyes, he dropped the hand, his face somber. “You should not take such risks with yourself.”

“It’s not—”

His palm lifted. “You presume on this day.”

Presume? She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He slowly stepped towards her, assessing. Watchful. “By your own admission, you’ve died dozens of times. You do not fear death.”

“Well, no. It’s the—”

“You do not avoid it,” he accused though she could tell he was trying to keep a lid on his temper. 

Instead of the flippant answer itching for voice as it jumped up and down on the tip of her tongue, she prodded her Took side out of the way and handled it Baggins-fashion. Calmly. Logically. 

She supposed he was right. Since it wasn’t permanent, only painful and icky, she didn’t take precautions she might have before this fiasco had begun. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

His lips compressed for a moment. His chin dipped. _Not again,_ she groaned. “You are still innocent,” he said flatly. 

“What’s—” she immediately began.

Thorin’s face filled her vision. He was abruptly _right there,_ his nose an inch from hers and his blue eyes blazing. In a harsh whisper, he asked, “Do you know what goblins and orcs do to females before they slay them?”

She blinked. Come to think of it, no, she didn’t. But based upon the outrage causing the veins in his temples to throb, she had a sinking suspicion. “You mean they…?” Her hands lifted in an aborted gesture.

Thorin nodded slowly. 

Her stomach twisted with sudden nausea. _That_ could have happened…with Thorin lurking about invisibly? 

Buttercup vomited. No warning. No gag. Just an instant bending over and emptying her belly of bile. 

Right on her love’s boots.

Of course. She would never, never, never manage to make a good impression with this dwarf. _I’m cursed. That’s what this is. Everyone else is going on with their lives while I relive this day and cram it full with as many mortifying moments as I can._

Thorin seemed to calm—perhaps because of the proof stinking up their nostrils that she’d realized what he’d meant for her to realize. He sighed heavily, guided her away from the spot, and offered her a small flask from his coat. “Swish with this.”

Buttercup unscrewed the cap, tipped back the flask, then the familiar taste of whiskey filled her mouth. She swished a mouthful around and spat it out. Then she swallowed a second mouthful. After capping it, she returned it to him with a subdued little, “Thank you.”

“You,” he said, shrewd eyes on her, “hid much during our journey.”

She supposed she had. “I was attempting to pass as a male.”

“More than that.” Thorin’s vial disappeared into his coat. “Much more than that.” 

Buttercup found herself under an intense scrutiny, one she couldn’t decipher. “I want your word,” Thorin said rather abruptly.

She drew the ring from her pocket and idly played with it until Thorin eyed it with heavy suspicion. Back in her pocket it went. 

His eyes lifted to hers, the skin around them tight. “You will not attempt to relive this day,” he said.

What? Her head jerked upwards.

“I ask myself what I would do in your place. The answer is that I would seek stability and comfort from the ones around me. I am sure the temptation to relive moments of happiness or laughter would be overwhelming.” 

Since he seemed to expect an answer, she thrust her hands in her pants pockets and bobbed up and down on her feet a few times before saying, “It is.”

“You’ve done it before.”

Heat stole into her cheeks. “I have,” she whispered, looking away. “With Nori, mostly.” A hasty glance his way, a hurried explanation. “The Ris adopted me as a sister. Once. Nori made me swear to call him ‘nadad’ going forward. He wanted his other self, his _ignorant_ self,” she corrected, “to be clued in enough to keep an eye on me, I think.” She fidgeted under Thorin’s stare. She’d give her king this—he had skills that would serve him well from the throne. “They’re my family. At least on my part.”

A hand crossed the distance between them and turned her face upwards. “You will not risk this day again. Today, you were spared a fate I would wish on no one. Next time, you may not be. Swear it.”

Given how her first real kiss with Thorin had turned so awful afterward? He needn’t worry. This one could be lost in the annals of time. _Good riddance._ “I won’t.”

“I have your word?” His eyes hooded.

“You have my word.” She gave a good, solid nod to assure him of her conviction.

“Good.” That was when the king leaned down, a smirk on his face. “I’ll hold you to that.” Then with his big hands framing her face, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. He followed it up by touching his forehead to hers, the light in his blue eyes sending shivers through her. 

He straightened—without a _single word_ to tell her what was going on in that dratted mind of his—and gestured her towards the exit. Buttercup padded by his side, sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her left eye. Confound it! The dwarf had donned that regal face of his, the one that revealed next to nothing. How was that fair? 

_It isn’t,_ her Took self moped. Her Baggins self patted it on the head in sympathy. 

How was that right?

 _It’s not. But it is just like him,_ the two said in unison. 

Buttercup kicked a pebble from her path, aware when it earned a glance from Mister Uncommunicative. _I really wish I hadn’t promised._ That last kiss to the forehead might not be the stuff of a good romantic tale, but drat it, she dearly wished to replay it. Maybe during a second go-round, she’d be able to eke more from Thorin’s body language than the first. 

_He cheats,_ both sides of her unanimously agreed. 

Not a minute later, Buttercup and Thorin donned the ring once more and headed down the mountain. They had progress to report to the rest of the war council if their allies had achieved victory this day.


	15. Turning Tables

Buttercup Baggins fell into the bushes. There, she giggled and did a little hip shimmy. Her Thorin had found the Breaker! She’d be tempted to run through Dale’s streets shouting the good news at the top of her lungs if she thought any would appreciate it. 

The sound of _clip-clop_ told her as Lach pranced away, proud of her daily misdeed. Craning her neck around, Buttercup caught a glimpse of the horse’s rump along with swishing tail before it disappeared around a corner.

“May I be of assistance?”

“Hello, Wesley. Just the man I needed to see.” She beamed up at him, blowing a stray blond curl from her face when it chose that very moment to bat her nose.

That earned her an amused glance downward along with an arched eyebrow. “Nice bushes, are these?”

“Only the very best,” she said loftily. “A girl could search the world over and not find a better place to rest.”

His smile widened though he seemed startled. _Oh. Gender. (Sigh.)_ Westley stepped closer. “I apologize, miss, but…do we know each other?”

Buttercup winked up at him. “We do. And if you would be so kind as to save me from these bushes, I’ll explain how.”

“Well, with an offer like that, who could resist?” With a gallant little bow, he hefted her from the evil bushes and set her on her feet. 

“I have a story I need to tell you.” She paused, for all the words she’d intended to say staged a mutiny and winged away with barely a backward glance—traitorous imps! Instead, words burst from her that had festered—yes, _festered_ —the entire walk down the Lonely Mountain with only one _infuriatingly silent_ Thorin Oakenshield for company. 

A distant part of her buried her face in her hands. Instead of bearing her confusion with stoic pride, she was about to blab it to a man who didn’t even know who she was. _Brilliant, Buttercup. Absolutely brilliant._

Her idiot self barreled on regardless, waving hands in the air. “He kissed me, Westley. And he _regretted it.”_ A tragic dip of the knees. A pleading look up at the black-clad man. “At least, it _looked_ like he regretted it, but then he made me promise, and then he kissed my forehead, but he never _said_ anything. Not one word. Who does that? Oh, sure, he made me promise not to try to relive yesterday, so I suppose he cares—the humperdink—and then he kissed my forehead. What does _that_ mean?”

Her hands delved into her curls and gave them a few solid yanks while she paced around her friend like he was a Thrimidge Pole. “You’re a male. What am I to make of it?” Then with a wail, “I was _fine_ having a one-sided love. Really! Yes, I teased him horribly and kissed him when presented the opportunity, but deep inside, I knew he’d never return my affections, and he wouldn’t remember.”

She glanced upwards. Though Westley stared in bafflement, she wilted. “Alright! Yes, yes, I took advantage. It was wrong. I’m a horrible, froward hobbit of loose morals and—”

A lifted, black gloved hand halted her words. “I feel I am missing most of this conversation,” Westley commented lightly.

Buttercup froze. Then, she sighed and rubbed her nose. He was right. 

_Big picture, Buttercup Baggins. Guess what? Your love life does not merit a footnote beneath it._

Bother. Truly, it wasn’t the time for this talk. Grabbing the man’s hand, she said, “Come with me. I’ll try to make more sense this time.”

OoOoOo

She marched up to Thorin with sandwich tucked under one arm—Westley, blast him, had heard her update on her ‘courtship’ (she had heavy doubts that _that_ was the correct title for it) and would not release her from her assignment. Even _after_ her garbled explanation of the kiss the night before.

So with ring on her finger, she snuck to the king, grabbed him by the beard and kissed the breath from him. This was no tame smooch, no peck with anything remotely ladylike about it. By his Durin, she’d scorch the hair off his toes…had he any. (Come to think of it, she’d never had a chance to examine his feet, but that was a thought for another time. Ahem.)

It backfired. Almost immediately, a blaze ignited in her own body, and when Thorin returned the kiss, she feared they’d go up in flames. Who needed Smaug? She expected any second to go _poof!_ Pile of ashes where once stood a hobbit.

The small purr from her own throat returned her to herself. _Buttercup Baggins,_ a part of her indignantly protested. 

_Oh, stuff it._ She yanked the ring from her finger, shoved the sandwich into an aghast Thorin’s hands. “Oh, shush,” she scolded, hands finding hips as his closed around the food. “I’m female.”

“You’re…female,” he said, his voice gaining strength. And anger. 

Typical Thorin. Buttercup poked him in the chest with one finger. “Eat. Yes, I’m female. Thank you _so_ much for pointing that out after not realizing for _nine full months._ Truly, the lot of you do wonders for a female’s ego.” She stamped one foot. “Am I really so male looking that none of you can tell the difference?” 

Her pointed finger halted his next words. “Eat! I don’t have time for your arguments this day. Enemies are coming. You have dwarves to lead, and I have chores of my own.” Again the finger strengthened. “No. Not. One. Word, Thorin Oakenshield. I’m a female scorned, and by your Mahal, you owe me. For the ramparts. For saving your hide _twice_ by facing Azog.” Then as he gaped, her temper blew sky high. _“Eat!”_

OoOoOo

Buttercup sprinted into Dale a half hour later—twenty seven minutes exactly according to Westley’s pocket watch, and she preened to know it. After her tirade, one which the rest of the Company heard given it was shouted at the top of her lungs, the Company had been oddly pliable. Not one protested at her instructions.

Not even Dwalin. (More preening.)

Thorin had kept glancing at her as if she’d sprouted breasts and… Well, on that point, she sniggered to herself, she had. _That’s one surefire way to shock a Durin._ Not that it would work twice when— _if_ —time ever returned to normal.

Her bow and quiver banged against her back with each step. She had Sting strapped to her side, the mithril shirt protecting her torso, and a can-do attitude that dared anyone— _anyone_ —to get in her way. 

_It’s Thorin’s fault._ Dratted dwarf. He’d kissed and forgotten. No, it wasn’t his fault but…but… _Grr!_

Next list on the agenda: meet with Bard, Gandalf, and the Elvenking. She’d mixed things up this morning, and for good reason. Thorin had done his part the day before, but for the rudimentary plan she’d concocted in the long and awkward march down to Erebor the night before to work, she needed help. 

And this time, it wouldn’t be help from the Company. If Thorin ever found out… 

Thorin would be Not Happy. So far as he knew, she was informing Gandalf, Thranduil and Bard of his return to reason and then resuming her hunt for their Breaker. Yes, Buttercup had lied to him. She’d stared his hobbit-kissing-and-forgetting, word-hogging self in the face and flat out lied by omitting any mention of the events the previous go-around. 

She had to. That dwarf had her tied in so many knots, she didn’t know which way was up. And worse, the current Thorin was utterly clueless! How was she supposed to deal with that? 

In the end, she decided not to. Time away from Thorin, that was what she needed. (To which a part of her threw a screaming fit worthy of a toddler. Avoid _Thorin? Noooo!)_

 _You, Buttercup Baggins, are a fopdoodle of the highest order._ She decided she could take the label ‘coward’ if it kept her from having to deal with Sir Kissable for an afternoon.

Was she overacting? She had to concede it was likely, and that had led to another realization: so long as this wretched day kept repeating itself over and over, wooing or trying to win Thorin was an exercise in futility. It was akin to beating her head against a wall. Daily. _A thick, stone wall of dwarf stubbornness,_ she grumbled. After last night, her heart was bound to begin acquiring bruises if she kept this up.

Buttercup’s ears ears detected sounds of life. She and Westley were nearing their destination. _Good. No more thoughts of the senior-most Durin._

Except her mind immediately returned to her dilemma. She was a humperdink. It was as if she was a moth to Thorin’s flame. Every instinct cried _danger,_ but she kept flapping closer, mesmerized. 

What to do? She’d all but fled Erebor in her angst. Why, she’d almost neglected to call Nori nadad! 

Buttercup Baggins loved one Thorin Oakenshield. Not his dratted crown, not his stupid overflowing collection of mathoms or his absurdly massive kingdom, but _him._ The too-honorable, too-noble dwarf she’d come to know over the long year(s?) since they’d met in Bag End. 

By the Shire, it was tempting to pull her own hair out. Trust Thorin to make even a simple thing like unrequited love _complicated._ Bah!

They reached the now-inhabited section of Dale, and she finally won free of her spinning thoughts. Thorin Oakenshield? Pshaw. Never heard of him.

Buttercup raced up a short flight of stairs into a fountain-less courtyard clogged with people and darted into their midst, her pace never slacking. She hoped she had not delayed too long. With Westley’s soft tread right behind, she zig-zagged through the men, her thoughts on her fledgling plan.

That was when in her distraction she fetched right up against the tallest man _ever_ —she was pretty confident on that score. Westley, bless him, caught her before she fell onto her rump. 

_Blimey,_ she goggled with saucer-sized eyes. _He might have an inch or two on Beorn._ Instantly, she made a mental note to get the two together after the battle. She had to know. 

The big giant of a man twisted at the waist, his bushy brown eyebrows rising when he saw her half-sprawled against her pirate friend. “Oh. Hello, little lady. Are you hurt?”

“N-no,” she managed as Westley righted her.

“We do apologize, but we’re in a bit of a hurry,” Westley said. “We need to get to King Bard, and my friend, as you can see, is easily overlooked.”

The big man stood to his full, impressive height. “I will help you.” Then with a friendly wink, he bellowed, “Everybody _move!”_

Like magic, the way cleared of bodies. 

Buttercup wasted no time. After tossing him her brightest smile, she rushed down the open path, shouting, “Thank you!” over her shoulder. 

“Bye, little lady!” the giant called after her, waving one big hand. 

Finally. A man who correctly identified her on sight as female. Too bad he was a good ten times her size and weighted likely more than thirty of her. All of it muscle. 

Still, the moment cheered her considerably, so instead of tackling Alfrid to the ground as she’d half intended—one day, she promised herself with a naughty little smirk, she’d do just that (truly, just once…well, maybe twice)—she darted around his legs fast enough to trip him up. She continued on, only to come up short to find the three men she’d needed standing on the landing outside the lord’s hall. 

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled though he shook his head in mock sympathy for her victim. Bard rubbed his jaw, fighting a smile. 

But it was the Elvenking she targeted. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she rushed. 

“You intend to join us for the exchange?” Thranduil said. 

“Oh.” Blink. _Right. Arkenstone. They think they’re still scheduled to trade with with Thorin._ Silly men. 

She backtracked and repeated her daily spiel, telling the three about the day that refused to end and the high points since its start. At first, the three looked doubtful—Alfrid, the louse, hovered in the background making skeptical noises (he was _so_ going down tomorrow)—but as details continued to accumulate from her barrage of words, doubt changed into a horrible belief. 

“Maegon,” the Elvenking called out at one point.

An elf Buttercup vaguely recognized— _Wait a second…that’s one of the two who eavesdropped when I confess to Westley that I love Thorin!_ —materialized, one in gold-hued armor, his ash blond hair loose to his shoulders. “Summon my son and Commander Tauriel.”

“Immediately, my king,” the elf replied with a short bow. He sprinted off in a hurry.

“Go on,” Thranduil ordered. 

That was when Buttercup reached the part about the ROUSes. Bard jerked, then blanched. “You tell us this _now?”_

“I’m doing this as fast as I can,” she said defensively. “Yes, I know. You have to go. Gandalf, if you would aid him?” She gave the wizard her best puppy-dog eyes.

After tapping her nose, telling her without word that he was onto her, the wizard departed. Bard collected Alfrid and took him with him.

She was left with the Elvenking and Westley, which was rather what’s she’d been aiming for. Standing there with Thranduil’s full regard, one that didn’t fluctuate for more than a blink as his son and Tauriel arrived—the eavesdropping Maegon lurking a few feet away—she fidgeted, feeling her youth keenly. Yavanna knew, they probably viewed her as an infant. 

“You wish to ask something of me?” the Elvenking said at last, his expression cool but not cruel. _No, that he saves for Thorin._ Not that Thorin did anything to engender positive relations between them. 

“I do.” Her hands twisted together at her waist.

One blond and elegant eyebrow arched upwards. “Not your dwarves? I thought your loyalty to them absolute.”

“It was,” she blurted.

“Was?” a new voice interrupted, one not happy with her answer. 

_Oh no._ Buttercup slowly turned in time to see Nori jump up the stairs onto the landing, a bit out of breath. “Nori, how did you get here?”

Her middle nadad crossed arms before his chest in typical dwarven Stubborn Stance. “Was?”

 _“Is,”_ she corrected. “I meant _is.”_

“Then why are they hearing things you failed to mention to us?” he pressed. To one side, Buttercup saw Legolas watching with narrowed eyes, his right hand near the hilt of his sword. She didn’t bother to check Thranduil. Like son, like father, she assumed. 

To Westley, she said, “Mind if I go real quick to find a wall to beat my head against?”

Nori’s hands came to her arms and turned her to face him before Westley could do more than smirk. The thief’s expression was one of hurt. “Nadad, you called us. Did you not mean it then, Bilb—” He coughed. “Just what is your name?”

“Buttercup,” she said, inwardly sighing for Nori often found that disclosure hilarious. 

“Buttercup.” He smoothed one hand down his mustache. 

“Are we finished?” came the Elvenking’s cool voice. 

Nori stiffened, but Buttercup slapped one hand to his chest with a firm _don’t-you-dare,_ pointed look “Thank you, no,” she told Thranduil, planting herself with her back to Nori…between him and the elf, thank you very much. “I know. We don’t have much time, and I’ve delayed things.”

Legolas glanced between them. “Adar?”

“The halfling claims to be reliving the same day, Legolas,” Thranduil said in his cool voice. 

“Reliving the same day?” Legolas echoed.

“Never heard elves were hard of hearing,” Nori declared with a snort. Buttercup stepped back onto his foot.

The elves ignored them. 

“This day.” Thranduil’s stare turned challenging on his son. “She has been most convincing. Enemies march on us. They will be upon us shortly.” Tauriel and Legolas stiffened and exchanged alarmed glances, but Thranduil’s head tilted, turning his focus to Buttercup. “We haven’t all day.”

“No, we don’t.” She wiped sweaty palms on her pants and stepped closer. “I need your help and your knowledge. Yesterday, I took Thorin with me to hunt for our opponent’s Breaker.”

“Which you also failed to mention to us,” Nori murmured. 

She reached back and pinched his arm, still facing forward. “So long as it exists, the war changes daily. There are days our casualties are so much higher than others.” Her voice turned ragged. “I’ve seen just about everyone die at one point or another.”

“My son?” Thranduil interrupted, his voice a lash.

“Even Legolas,” she confessed, sympathy rising at the way Thranduil flinched at the news. “I thought if we could find a way to remove Azog’s Breaker…”

“…we can predict Azog and Bolg’s actions,” Thandruil finished for her in an ominously soft voice. “Remove all uncertainty. Continue.”

“We found him. Thorin and me. I know what the Breaker looks like. It’s a goblin. I thought if I could find where he starts his day and borrow some of your elves, we could strike him down before he can see the full of our plans, thereby diminishing his effectiveness.” She waited with bated breath for his decree. It was a weak plan. The goblin was sure to do all in his power to hide or shield himself.

“They’ll protect him, won’t they?” she asked when the silence stretched on. She exhaled in frustration. “There has to be someth—”

Thandruil…smiled. Buttercup blinked. He _smiled,_ and it wasn’t cruel or haughty. It was gentle. Amused, even. “You assume I was about to judge your plan foolish?” He shook his head. “It is a start, your plan, but one I would modify.”

“Agreed,” Westley said, entering the conversation for the first time. Buttercup twisted to find her friend in his Think Stance: one arm wrapped around his torso, the opposite hand to his chin. 

Nori, when she glanced back at him, played with his favorite dagger, his face intent. 

Thranduil’s eyes flicked to the pirate, but he asked no questions of him. Instead, he told Buttercup, “You assume orcs and goblins operate as we would. That they would defend their fellow.” He flicked some fingers, though it was not with the disdain she expected. “The bonds that hold us have no place among them. Friendship. Loyalty. Love. They do not exist among Morgoth’s creatures.”

“Or el—” Nori’s words halted as Buttercup’s elbow found his gut. He wheezed. “Namad,” he said, sounding shocked.

“You taught me that,” she said, smirking up at him. 

Nori’s eyes widened. Then his lips curled and his chest puffed out. 

She kissed his cheek. Her attention returned to the elves as the Elvenking strode to the edge of the landing, his gaze upon the Lonely Mountain. 

“We must turn your Breaker’s own people against him,” Thranduil said.

“That should be easily done,” Nori commented.

Westley hummed his agreement. “Yes, but it will need a deft hand.”

“Ruling out you dwarves, I believe,” Legolas sallied, a smirk on his lips.

Buttercup grabbed hold of Nori. “Really, Legolas? You’re older than them.”

For a second, the elf looked abashed, but Buttercup turned on Nori. “He saved my life.” That stopped the dwarf in his tracks.

“Eh?” Doubtful eyes slid down to her.

“I was stuck clinging to the side of the Lonely Mountain. I couldn’t go up. I couldn’t climb down. If not for Legolas and Westley, you’d have been shoveling up my remains that day.” A tiny shudder went through her frame, and that, she thought, was what convinced him. She curled one arm around the dwarf’s waist. “Let it go, Nadad. Please?”

A grunt. A sour relenting. 

Buttercup faced the Elvenking while Nori’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Okay. So deft. Subtle. What are we doing?”

The two seemed to read each other, for Westley and the Elvenking nodded in unison. “I will send out scouts, teams of three should suffice,” Thranduil directed to Tauriel and his son. “They will whisper when they hear enemy forces approaching about the goblin turncoat even now feeding lies into Azog’s ear that will ensure our victory.”

“Azog will kill him,” Buttercup blurted. Why…it was genius. Absolute, perfect genius. She did a tiny, subdued jig, which brought a smile to Nori’s lips. 

“Aye. It won’t be an easy death, either,” Nori said. 

Thandruil’s sharper smile included Nori. “No, it won’t. Our Breaker will die painfully. Slowly.”

“It’ll convince the goblin to remain silent,” Legolas said with the voice of revelation.

“Indeed. We will do just that,” his father agreed.

Westley, when Buttercup looked, wore a dangerous smile. “We repeat this action, day by day. Soon, the goblin will awaken and seek only a place from which to hide.”

“His name would be useful,” Thranduil murmured. 

Westley nodded. “His name, we shall determine.” 

His focus shifted to Buttercup and her dancing in place halted mid-wiggle. Was this not an appropriate time for a celebratory dance? With Nori’s soft chuckles in her ears, she stood to attention, blushing. “You need me to spy on him?”

“By your own admission, you cannot speak their language,” Thranduil said. 

“I will go with her,” Legolas offered.

“An el— _Oof.”_ Nori glared down at Buttercup. 

She glared right back and lifted one challenging eyebrow. 

Thranduil faced his son, and for the first time, Buttercup detected a hint of concern upon the elf’s austere face. 

“I will be careful, Adar,” Legolas assured. “They will not see me.” Then with a quirk of his lips, “If a dwarf can spy upon them, I should have no difficulties.”

Again, her elbow hit Nori’s gut. When her nadad frowned, she faced her audience and cleared her throat. “Actually, about that…”

OoOoOo

It was not long later that the group split. Tauriel raced off to position the king’s troops as he commanded, Legolas went to search out supplies and collect his horse, and Thranduil hurried to coordinate with Bard and Thorin.

Nori snagged hold of her before Buttercup could depart. “You left off a lot of information, Namad,” he said, face tight and eyes faintly wounded. 

Groaning, she admitted defeat and dropped her head onto his chest. “It’s so embarrassing, Nori.”

“Embarrassing? Of all the words I expected to hear from you, pipsqueak, that was near the last.” Rough hands chaffed her back, and she took comfort from it. 

“None of you remember,” she said sorrowfully. His hands stilled. Her head lifted. “Not you. Not Dori and Ori, but I promise, I cherish the times with each of you. Me calling you nadad is likely a shock to you each day, but to me…”

“How long?” he asked, eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side. 

“Too long,” she said, managing a crooked smile. “You want to know why I said nothing? I can sum it up in one word: Thorin.” His brows flew upwards, but she plowed onward. “Westley found out I have a…bit…of an affection and said that I couldn’t abandon true love, so like a ninny, I agreed to report to him daily on my progress wooing…” 

Oh dear mistletoe, her cheeks were hot enough to catch fire. “Don’t give me that look. I know! It’s ridiculous, but I fell for him, and I _do_ have to kiss him daily to pull him from his sickness, and that makes it so much harder, because he’s so… Well, and I’m not…” Bother. She buried her face in both palms before trying again. Peeking between splayed fingers, she said, “Last night, Thorin kissed me, but then he said nothing, so I don’t know what it means.”

A slow, lopsided smile claimed his lips.

“Nori! It’s not funny!”

“Aye, it is,” the thief chortled. Then looping an arm around her neck, he said, “Tell your nadad Nori everything.”

She groaned.

OoOoOo

Legolas hated her ring. That was okay, because Nori hated the whole plan. He followed Buttercup and Legolas to Dale’s eastern edge, his face a thundercloud and his hand welded to the hilt of his dagger.

“You can’t come, Nori,” Buttercup tried.

“It doesn’t mean I have to like this plan o’ yours,” he growled. 

No. It didn’t. And she suspected it had everything to do with losing his first sister. She hugged him tight, the breath rushing from her lungs as he returned it and then some. He’d dragged the whole story about herself and Thorin from her, and he’d given her the encouragement and support she needed. 

All while wearing this secretive little smirk that refused to fade. The humperdink.

“So I taught you to fight, eh?” Nori whispered, his forehead to hers. 

Her answering smile was wobbly but sincere. “You taught me a lot more than that.”

His throat tightened. His lips twisted. “I’m liking your repeating day less and less, lass.”

“You and me both.” And if her voice was a bit forlorn, Nori didn’t call her on it. 

Instead, he said, “I’ll be waitin’ for the both of you to return near Ravenshill, aye? You’ll come right to me?”

“But your broth—”

His hand halted her words. _“Our_ brothers,” Nori said. “Thorin sent me after you to make sure you’re protected.”

He…did? She brightened. “Just how did you get here so fast?” she asked teasingly.

Nori shrugged both shoulders. “We dwarves, we’re wasted in long distances, but we’re mighty fine sprinters.”

Oh. 

Then it was time. With a last tight hug, she left Nori and joined Legolas and the gray stallion he’d selected. Legolas grimaced as she drew forth the ring.

The instant it clamped around their pinkies, Legolas’s face hardened into chiseled stone, and his eyes flamed with icy fire. “Mistress Baggins, I do not believe this ring is so harmless as you believe.”

“What?” Nori’s glanced in their direction, his brow tense.

Legolas frowned in sympathy at him, not that Nori saw it. To Buttercup, “You will let my father and Mithrandir examine your ring when we return. I feel it imperative.” 

“You, too?” she asked in a resigned voice. Her ring. Her precious, helpful ring. Her mind returned to the previous day, though, and the spurt of malice it had given off. Precious or not, if that was what lurked beneath its smooth veneer, perhaps Thorin and Legolas were right.

“What do you mean?” Legolas asked sharply.

“What _do_ you mean?” Nori interrupted. A flailing hand found her, and Nori drew her back against his chest, his arms protective around her waist. 

“Thorin,” she told them both. “He had an instant reaction to the ring and said it was evil.”

“The dwarf is more perceptive than I’d given him credit for,” Legolas said, earning him a double glare from Buttercup and Nori. He seemed unaware of it. “In this, I agree completely with him.” 

Truly, that did wonders for her peace of mind. She had to _use_ the ring, confound it. A lot if Azog hunted her as he’d promised to do. (Assuming that Breaker had been in a sharing mood after Azog had murdered him. Actually, that sounded unlikely. So maybe, Azog had no interest in her?) 

Nori squeezed until Buttercup couldn’t move. “I’ll be telling Thorin of this, Namad. And Dori.”

Dori, she groaned, would smother her with his protective streak. “Not Dori,” she begged.

Nori grinned wickedly. “You hie off without us into danger? Aye, I’ll be telling Dori. Some coddling is the least you’re deserving. Think of it this way,” he added, his tone unhappy, “neither of us will remember this come tomorrow.”

A sigh. A pat of his arm. “Fine, fine.” Then more seriously, “I’ll see you soon, Nadad.”

OoOoOo

Instead of trusting the spur, Legolas and Buttercup rode— _bareback,_ by the Shire—to the spur and followed its back edge from below. The hope was that if any spotted the horse, lack of tack would convince watchers that the horse had slipped away, and to that end, they took a meandering path never faster than a lope.

Once they reached the cliffs below where the spur met the main body of the mountain, the horse was abandoned. Buttercup and Legolas secured the pouches of water and food they’d gained from the elves’ supplies. And climbed.

Slowly. Carefully. Given her new fear of heights, that was the _only_ way Buttercup could do this. Yes, she’d live another day should she take a tumble, but it was the _splat_ she was hoping to avoid. No splattage for this hobbit, thank you very much.

Their aim was to reach the cave in which she’d last found the Breaker. From there, Legolas would attempt to learn the creature’s name and backtrack it to where it awakened each morning. It was a stiff order, but he was confident of success. 

_Confidence killed the cat,_ a part of her sang in the back of her mind. Or was it curiosity? Bah, she didn’t remember, and really, what difference did it make? The cat was dead. She’d rather not do dead again.

Hours passed in which they scaled the sheer eastern wall of the Lonely Mountain. Hours of ripping nails, shaking and complaining arms, legs and shoulders, and miniature heart attacks when Buttercup’s hold slipped. (It happened not once, not thrice, but _four_ confounded times.) If not for Legolas’s incredible speed, she’d have acquired that _splat_ memory for sure. And the screaming weightlessness that would accompany it. (She’d pass on that one, too, if the Valar were agreeable.)

Through it all, their fingers remained locked together, left pinkie to left pinkie as it had been with Thorin. Buttercup climbed with Legolas’s body brushing her back, a safety net that swiftly earned this elf her undying appreciation. 

If Nori ever insulted this elf again, she vowed, she’d shave his eyebrows. 

“Legolas?” she asked when they paused upon a diminutive out-thrust nodule of rock to sip water and nibble on dried nuts and fruit. Though she kept trying to avert her eyes, the drop was _right there._ Staring at her. Taunting her. 

The blond-haired elf glanced her way, his hair un-mussed, his breaths calm, and his clothes somehow immune from the sweat and grime of their efforts. 

_Elves cheat._ They had to. Only by some weird magic could the elf climb half a mountain and _still_ look so pretty. Buttercup grimaced, feeling all the grungier by comparison. “Thank you again.” See? And not a hint of jealousy leaked into her voice. She could do adult.

A kind smile lit his face. “It is we who should be thanking you. If not for your warning, we would have been caught unprepared.”

His expression turned pensive, and his head tilted to one side. _Listening to the sounds of battle,_ she concluded, her own moment of levity evaporating. She’d done it herself often enough to recognize the signs. Earlier, there had been a terrific clamor neither of them had been able to identify. It sounded as if part of the mountain had fallen, the sound of complaining earth, and both had fretted. 

Well, perhaps a bit more than _fret._ She was terrified for her dwarves. She didn’t care that the day replayed, she wanted them safe. She wanted Thorin to be fit and glaring at her this night. She wanted Dori to chastise her for trusting an elf and climbing a mountain without him. “I do hope they are well,” she whispered.

OoOoOo

It was the last moment of levity they would have, for upon completing their climb and gaining their first view of the battlefield, they saw massive holes in the ground—holes right where their allies were to have been positioned at the start of the battle. The field was silent, yet the sun still shone.

“No,” she whispered. “Oh, no.”

Legolas’s eyes had been wide, his face wounded with loss. With one arm, he’d pulled her closer. “I see none moving,” he’d said, his voice soft and hollow. “None of our peoples, nor any of the men.” 

_Thorin. Dori. Ori. Westley._ It was the worst defeat yet. 

_No, not defeat,_ that Baggins stubbornness insisted. _It isn’t over yet._ But by Yavanna, it hurt to see this. To know so many lights had been extinguished down below. 

Buttercup tugged on Legolas’s arm. “This isn’t over,” she told him, doing nothing to stop the tears silently streaming down her cheeks. “We don’t let it end here. Believe me. This day will start anew. _This_ doesn’t have to be the last word, but we have to move to change it. We need that monster’s name.”

A fire ignited in the prince’s eyes. “His name, we shall have.”

They moved. In the end, they found the Breaker not far from the cave, rejoicing with its fellows over the body of someone Buttercup refused to identify. They waited, eyes averted until Legolas’s body suddenly thrummed with triumph. The Breaker’s name was Blat and he fell dead to Legolas’s arrow the instant it was learned.

Legolas scooped her up, and they ran, silent and invisible, from the scene.

Then, it was down the mountain to Ravenhill. Nori had to be dead. Buttercup knew that, but she could not simply aband—

He wasn’t dead. They two found the thief hidden on the hill among rubble and the bodies of the fallen. Grasping him, they led him out of harms’ way.

As night fell, the three sat down and discussed the day. Legolas and Buttercup learned all that had befallen their friends and loved ones. Both dwarf and elf told her what she must tell them in the morning.

For in the morning, the Breaker would find the tables turned against him.

Drastically.


	16. Blotting Out Blat

Buttercup stared up at the blue, blue sky. It was time. She held in her hands the puzzle pieces to turn the tables on one Blat, soon to be unwitting nemesis of both Azog and Bolg. She wondered if the little runt had a strong bladder. “Run,” she whispered maliciously. 

Then to herself, “Run, Buttercup. For Thorin and every other soul you love in this nightmare, run fast.”

She did just that. Westley had scarcely set her feet down when she grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him after her. This time, she didn’t offer explanations or courtship updates. She babbled that she’d explain when they got “there”. 

Alfrid, she felled with a swift kick to the groin followed by a punch to the eye. By the Shire, it was satisfying.

Buttercup and her baffled but unresisting tag-along reached the Elvenking, Gandalf, and Bard—each, Buttercup squeezed tight, including Thranduil but by the Shire, she was so confounded _relieved_ to see them alive and breathing and blinking down at her in consternation. She raced through her tale. She informed Thranduil of his son’s discovery, of the Breaker’s identity and the sudden addition of were-worms to their troubles. 

“I would suspect this some Tookish trick,” Gandalf said, his face tired and worn, “but I fear it is not.”

“It’s no trick, Gandalf,” she said, her feet dancing in place. She wanted Thorin and in a second, she was going to run out of patience. “Blat has to be driven into hiding.”

Thranduil glided towards her, his face both severe and gentle. One fine-boned hand settled upon the crown of her head. “Go, little one. I can see your need to be with your dwarves.”

“You must not be seen,” Gandalf added.

“I won’t be.” She donned her ring. Rushed through Dale. And stole Lach. For once, the mare was going to be help instead of hindrance.

OoOoOo

Riding alone…was never going to happen again, no matter how a part of her thrilled to the heady feeling of power beneath her. Instead of encouraging the mare to halt, Buttercup jumped free of her, rolled like Kíli had taught her, and called to Nori.

He hauled her up, exclaimed in surprise when her tight hug revealed she was decidedly _not_ male, then followed when she raced down Erebor’s halls shouting for the others at the top of her lungs. Unfortunately, that summoned Thorin, too. 

Up came the ax. Shouts filled the air, but this time, _oh_ this time, it wasn’t the bumbling burglar Thorin contended with previously. Before Nori could catch up (or any of the others), Sting parried the ax. “Come on, Thorin,” she willed. “You’re in there. I need you out here.”

_Clash._ His ax sent Sting sliding out of reach, but she rolled under his next swing, kicked out his knee, and then wrapped herself around her king, arms and legs both. Faces inches apart, hands bracketing his face, she said, “Thorin, I need your help. _We_ need your help.” Her forehead rested against his. Lo and behold, he went rigid but the ax made no sudden and bloody reappearance. “Normally,” she told him candidly, “I’d kiss you. That seems to be sufficient shock even for a Durin so stubborn as yourself.” 

A shuddered inhale, a pained expression. 

“Eh… _Mistress_ Baggins?” Nori said, easing closer. “I’d suggest you back away now, lass.”

_“Lass?”_

She sniggered, unmoving. “I’ll never tire of that,” she whispered to her dwarf. Her thumb caressed Thorin’s cheekbone. “You really should join us now, Thorin. I mean, I’ll kiss you if that’s what it takes, but think of the scandal. The King under the Mountain consorting with common hobbits? Oh the shame.”

“Uh… Mistress Baggins,” Fíli said in his most correct voice. “Won’t you join us? Over…here?”

“I’m fine, Fíli,” she said. “Your uncle is tough as nails. He’s won his way free of the dragon-sickness before. He’ll do it again.” Then softer, “Come on, Thorin. Please, don’t take too long.”

“Are we…” Thorin’s face contorted, and a tremendous shudder shook him. “Is there some urgency we are unaware of, _Mistress_ Baggins?” 

There was the flash of temper she’d been expecting. “You did it!” she squealed. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. “Welcome back, Thorin Oakenshield. Oh, welcome back.”

A part of her felt a pang of regret. No kiss this day. She wanted a kiss, confound it!

But the rest of her was jubilant. Thorin won free. By himself with just a little coaxing. This, she wanted for him. More than kisses, for it returned his pride to him. He hadn’t been saved, he’d clawed his way free on his own. _No more doubting himself,_ she thought.

So pleased was she, she planted a kiss on the side of his head…and flushed bright red, mortified to have missed and caught his _ear._ She dropped and backed away in a hurry, her eyes anywhere but on the restored king. 

_Ooooh, Buttercup._ That was a line, and sure as sugar was sweet, she’d crossed right over it. Were there any carpets nearby to crawl under?

The Company clustered around Thorin, but Buttercup’s feet carried her right up to Dori. There, she plunked her head on his chest. _Shameless, Buttercup. Absolutely shameless._

_It was an accident!_

That Baggins part of her sniffed disdainfully. _Was it? Was it really?_ A pause and a baleful inner glare. _Hussy._

OoOoOo

What did it say that the arrival of the enemy brought relief to one red-faced hobbit? Nothing good, Buttercup didn’t think. She gave second consideration to sewing her dratted lips together. Not only would it lock humiliating words inside, but it would also stop her lips from achieving sufficient pucker to land her in trouble.

The were-worms arrived while the Company stood waiting upon Erebor’s ramparts. Dain’s dwarves formed a battalion before Erebor’s gates, and the men and elves were arrayed before Dale. Though it would be more difficult than previous strategies to squash the enemy between their lines, it removed them from direct danger of holes in the earth opening up beneath their feet. Dale and Erebor had been placed where they were for good reason: they stood on solid rock. Even overgrown worms would have problems boring through that.

“So.” Thorin’s blue eyes cut down to her, his face tight. “You say there will be ROUSes as well?”

She nodded shortly, bobbing on her feet. “They’ll rush Dale from the east.” A pause. “Thorin?”

His attention returned long enough to tell her he listened. 

“I should go.”

“Go?” In a flash, Dori and Ori were beside her, neither looking happy. Nori inspected his favorite dagger, his very posture a warning. 

“Go where?” Thorin asked, his hands upon the balustrade and focus on the gaping holes left by the worms’ passage. A horn sounded. Azog, she saw with some shock, stood atop Ravenhill. As if he _owned_ it, the wretch. 

Her opponent was plainly still at work. “Blat,” she answered shortly, nerves thrumming. “This change says he chatted with Azog before their arrival. I have to watch him to know if the rumors reach Azog and he turns on him.”

“And from where the rumors were heard,” Nori said, sheathing his weapon. “You settled your fate when you marched across Eriador with us,” he told her, and a number of dwarves grunted their agreement. “You made it worse the instant you called me nadad.” A sharp-edged smile flashed. “You go nowhere without one o’ us. Without _me.”_

Dori startled, then nodded firmly. 

“Nori, we don’t have time to argue,” Buttercup said, fists on her hips.

“No,” Thorin said with a ghost of a smile. “You don’t. I suggest you concede.” Suddenly, very intent eyes pinned her in place. “You, Mistress Baggins, have once again proved your place is with us. If I’d harbored any doubts about your tale, they are gone. By Mahal, we’ll not let you hie into danger alone.”

Fine. Rolling her eyes—inwardly gleeful that _Thorin_ was _concerned_ —she joined Nori. For his ears only, she said, “I’ve been told this ring is evil. Sure you want to risk it?”

“That a challenge?” His lips quirked.

OoOoOo

The instant Nori donned the ring, he stared at his hand with repugnance. After a low a grunt, he’d turned to Buttercup and said, “You’re right. Your ring is evil.”

Simple. Short. Unanimous. “So I’ve been told,” she sighed.

“When this is done…”

_“If,”_ she stressed.

“…we melt it down and give the metal to Tharkûn for safekeeping.” 

Sounded good to her. The wretched thing had to go. Yes, a part of her wanted to hold onto it with both hands—it was _hers,_ she pouted, and it was precious—but in the end, she trusted Thorin, Legolas and Nori a whole lot more than her sulky inner child. If it made her dwarves so uneasy, that was reason enough for her to be rid of the thing.

What if it turned her…orcish? Or worse? A part of her gasped. What if _it_ was behind her wanton behavior of late? Why, it could be—

Her Took size put its hairy foot down. _That is absurd. Blame Thorin for being so deliciously handsome. Blame those brawny muscles and that—_

She quashed that line of thought, but she admitted defeat. The ring had nothing to do with her fascination with the black-haired, blue-eyed dwarf king. 

Nori insisted doing things his own way, which meant she rode up the spur on his back, their left fingers linked by the ring. Any goblins he saw, and there were some, the trickster approached while making eerie noises that prompted the hair on Buttercup’s nape and arms to stand on end. It was the most freakish noise she’d ever heard, and she didn’t blame the goblins one bit for backing away. 

Using that sound, he herded them towards the cliff edge, prowling after them with a wicked grin on his face. Once he had them where he wanted them, Nori booted the creatures off the spur. Literally. One by one, goblins shrieked they way down the mountainside. 

_I don’t believe it._ Yet she did. 

At that, she’d planted her opposite elbow on his shoulder and plunked her chin atop it. She and Thorin, she thought, were idiots. Would this have worked before? 

_Na,_ she decided. That time, the goblins had been actively hunting a foe they suspected was lurking about. She felt less stupid for the conclusion.

So began the Great Goblin Punt, starring one Nori, thief, and one Buttercup, cackling audience. Well, audience until a few goblins gained courage to come towards the queer sound with spears raised. Then, she propped herself up on his back and kicked any spears that neared her brother whilst he was busy with another of the creatures. 

“Nadad?” she asked at one point when there was a lull in goblins. 

“Aye?”

“I want to be you when I grow up.” 

His laughter was sheer magic.

Later, there _was_ actual fighting. At one point, goblins rallied and charged at them. Off came the ring as she and Nori fought back to back. She took a gash across her chin and another across her neck—if that wasn’t a warning to keep her confounded guard up, she didn’t know what was—while Nori suffered a bang upon the head. The wound hadn’t opened skin, but it did puff up quite spectacularly. 

Once the goblins were dealt with, back the ring went on their fingers. Nori railed at her for a half hour solid for the slice on her neck—it could have taken her head clean off if just a few inches deeper. Instead of bristling with insult, she’d somberly accepted his correction, knowing it sprang from concern. She’d hugged him from behind, once again so very, very grateful for the affection the Ris had for some reason bestowed upon her. 

All without remembering her from one day to the next. 

It boggled the mind, but she cherished it. Truth be told, she’d come to count upon it. Everything else changed but this. They were her family, and she, by the Shire, was theirs.

That day, the rumors failed to reach Azog. The proof was in Blat’s continued existence. The creature was shifty. Nervous and uneasy. He spooked at every noise, and Nori spent a few minutes delighting in moving around the cave and making peculiar noises from different locations. Most of the goblins dismissed it and blamed it on one another, but their Breaker? He looked ready to pee his pants, his grip upon his falchion white knuckled. (And given he had green skin, that was saying something.)

That day, Blat and his protectors survived while many of their comrades did not. That day, the allies won.

Nori and Buttercup returned to Dale to report. Buttercup discovered where the elves had attempted to spread the rumors so as to repeat it to Thranduil the next morning. 

When Thorin saw her gashed neck, his jaw acquired a familiar tick. She was shocked when instead of lambasting her, he drew her into a tight embrace. 

All in all, Buttercup deemed it a good day.

OoOoOo

The next day, they got him. Just before noon, Bolg joined up with Azog, whispering (according to Legolas’s later retelling) urgently in his sire’s ear. Both orcs had stomped from the scene with murder in their eyes, and as Nori and Buttercup watched in secret, all that fury had descended upon Blat like an avalanche.

Buttercup had no idea what words were said, but the body language was plain enough. Goblins babbled defensively, Bolg snarled a rebuttal, and the goblin king glanced back at Blat with sudden suspicion. 

Then, it was ring around the cave as Blat ran for his life.

And failed.

Spectacularly.

When the screaming began, Buttercup hid her face in Nori’s chest. The creature would live again with the start of a new today, but she cringed in guilt for what he endured. 

That night, the allies celebrated. Thranduil brought out a secret cache of Dorwinion white wine, and the men of Dale and the dwarves drew out musical instruments. Yes, there were the slain to bury and healers did not pause to partake of the merriment, but Buttercup could not help rejoicing. This? This was so much less death than the first battle.

And each day, it got better. When she kissed Thorin (ahem) every other day to sanity, it was with a new, lighter heart. She bounced among her dwarves, hugging each when she told them her tale, and for the most part, they took it like males. Dwalin grunted and patted her roughly on the back. Gloin stood frozen like granite, and Bombur—dear, _observant_ Bombur—blushed and smiled.

Four days into the allies’ campaign of planting rumors, Blat was nowhere to be found. Anywhere. No body. No blood. Buttercup exchanged Nori for Legolas once more, hoping by eavesdropping, they could determine if the goblins searched for him, had executed him, or if Blat had hied himself off without a word of his secret knowledge. 

They returned exuberant. To all evidence, none of the enemy even noticed the goblin was missing. He’d faded back into obscurity and looked to remain that way. 

From there, the allies’ attention turned to plotting out the most crushing defeat possible. Events as they’d played out the first day returned—Azog led his orcs from Dol Guldur. Bolg led from Gundabad. The ROUSes disappeared as did the were-worms. 

With their foreknowledge guiding them, the elves, men and dwarves squashed their foes underfoot like bugs. 

Buttercup found herself with more free time in the evenings. She resumed her lessons with Dori. She spent months trailing after Oin, learning about healing at his side. She received riding lessons from Legolas (much to the dwarves’ displeasure) and more archery from Tauriel. From Bofur, she gained a cursory familiarity with whittling—not a skill she’d ever master, she’d concluded after accidentally slicing off half a finger (hooray for time’s reversal!)—and from Bifur, she learned the few signs of Iglishmêk Thorin deemed appropriate (namely, _Run!, Hide!_ and _Thank you)._

Life adopted a normalcy. She pestered pretty much everyone, learning names and backgrounds. She spent time with Bersi and his friends but also with the Elvenking a time or two. 

There was grief. How not when she discovered some men and elves seemed fated to die? Alter things though she did for weeks, some refused to be saved. Those, she regretfully decided were out of her control. She tried to make their last moments as happy as she could—delivering a favored sweet to a man of advanced years who would die defending Dale’s women and children, singing with a young man who intended to travel as a minstrel should Erebor’s fortunes turn his family’s situation around, and ask one of the elves to visit Dale’s elderly for one of the men would die of age before the battle finished, and he’d always longed to exchange words with one of the First Born.

It was not a normal life, but it was hers, and she grew to love it.

And the people in.

Excepting Alfrid. Even a hobbit had her limits.


	17. Bad Cat!

Buttercup squawked and fell into the bushes. Leaves sprayed merrily into the air, and the sky, when she glanced up, truly was an inspiring shade. She wiggled and grinned, pleased with the world. It had been ages since Blat had gone into hiding, and it looked like he was never to return. _Smart goblin._

“Good morning,” she sang out when she heard a familiar tread approaching. 

Her favorite pirate—alright, yes, the _only_ pirate she knew—stepped into view, a small smile playing upon his lips. “May I be of assistance?”

“You may, kind sir.” 

As countless times before, she pulled him along, singing a silly little child’s tune and skipping when their path crossed before a group of children. (They needed some cheer after Smaug—Yavanna, that seemed a lifetime ago!—and it cost her nothing.) Then, it was time to tell Bard, Gandalf, and Thranduil about their day, rush to Erebor to do the same for her dwarves—sometimes kissing Thorin and other times relishing the challenge of just _once_ disarming him (not that she’d succeeded thus far)—and then back to Dale to ask Tauriel to protect the Durin brothers, Westley to watch over a man from Lake-town, and on it went. 

By the time Azog and Bolg struck, she was out of breath positioned beside Dori, Nori, and Ori. All was as ready as she could make it. 

Battle. It dominated the day every day, bringing with it the stench of smoke and blood and pain. Here, too, Buttercup moved, leaving her dwarves a handful of times to intercede on behalf of others. Only Nori stayed with her, his gaze speculative when it had the time to turn her way. 

Thorin killed Bolg each day now, and though it rankled him, he never again got Azog. That one, Beorn claimed. Tauriel saved Kili and Fili from a counterstrike while Thorin was busy with Bolg, Legolas saved Bofur, and all in all…it was acceptable. The eagles came, the enemy scattered.

From there, Buttercup assured herself her dwarves and allies had survived (she couldn’t quite shake the fear something would occur to destroy her happy-ish outcome), joined Oin, and tended Dain’s dwarves as well Bard’s men, singing softly as she went. She’d witnessed the elvish healers doing likewise and had noted the power a simple song had to drive away fear from the sickroom. 

She didn’t (ahem) sing _Rye Whiskey._ That gem, she figured, was for around the campfire if she felt so inclined.

This night when all was done, when all grew quiet, she trudged off to find Westley in one of Dale’s courtyards. By the Shire, she was tired, and her body ached from so much exertion, but with it came the satisfaction of a hard day’s work. 

As every night, she found her pirate friend sitting with his back against the dry stone fountain, his legs extended before him and crossed at the ankles, his attention on the man of Dale strumming a lute from the steps leading into the lord’s hall. 

Buttercup joined her friend, sitting with legs drawn up and arms looped around her knees. Setting her chin on her knees, she relaxed and enjoyed the music. 

OoOoOo

_**Elsewhere…** _

Lady Vairë, Vala and Weaver, paused within the threshold to her studio, horror stealing up her spine to see the mischief her beloved pet had been up to in her absence. It had only been a quarter year! Or had it been longer? Time in Valinor was an uncertain thing, often passing unmarked as its residents had eternity in which to explore and learn.

The feline culprit swished his puffy tail in delighted jerks, and she rushed across the room to stand beneath her Weave. Why, whole sections of threads had been utterly jerked out of alignment. Fates had been changed and worse—oh, Eru would scold her—time itself had stalled, trapping all of Arda outside of Valinor in an endless loop of one day.

An _important_ day. “Oh, you naughty, naughty cat,” she scolded, shooing it away with one slippered foot. No wonder Namo was in a tizzy, frantic to discover why souls kept appearing and vanishing from his Halls. Aulë would be furious if…

 _Huh._ The plucking of her fingers slowed. Stopped. No, the Smith wouldn’t be furious, not at the new pattern the disturbance had generated in her absence. Why, with this alteration, his precious line of Durin would see their fates dramatically reversed and for the better. 

She bent closer to the strands most altered, her brow creased. Azog and his wretched son had been removed from Arda. Bard became king of Dale. This new pattern…this could work. Instead of setting the stage for disaster, it had the potential to hasten Sauron’s demise. That, Vairë was only too happy to coax along.

But the Ring. That, she thought with one finger tapping her lips, was a problem. The Ringbearer had acquired it as planned, but it could not remain in Erebor. Too many choice persons that the ring would love to corrupt would come within its grasp there. Not only dwarves but men and elves. No, that wouldn’t do. 

But. There was a second choice for the Ring. Yes, she mused. That would suffice.

To undo the cat’s work was completely unacceptable. If Aulë discovered it, he would throw a fit. This? This was…better.

But first, time had to be unleashed—Sauron would never be defeated this way! And… Her eyes narrowed on the single thin strand belonging to the Shireling. Oh, it was unheard of to meddle so directly, but the hobbit lass deserved a reward for all she’d done to form this pattern.

 _So be it._ Buttercup Baggins would live a long life, with or without the ring’s influence. Not enough to raise a lot of eyebrows, but sufficient to grow old with the dwarf family she loved, for it was plain to Vairë that the hobbit would not be happy attempting to live among her own kind once more. Her time reliving the day had changed her too much.

A tweak here, a tug there, and it was so.

There was just one more thing… 

Vairë never noticed the cat watching with amusement, his tail swishing at a job well done and an identical cat blinking confusedly beside him. No, he didn’t intervene very often, but this case was special. After nuzzling Vairë’s baffled and innocent pet gently, he padded out the door.

Eru did, after all, love happy endings.

OoOoOo

Thorin Oakenshield settled with a tired grunt onto the stone base of the hearth around which the Company had of late taken to camping. Their reclaimed halls were vast, but they were also filthy and perilous. Much of Erebor would need to be inspected for damage caused by Smaug before their kingdom would be ready for habitation. This section, Bofur and Bifur had looked over and deemed perfectly stable.

His gaze drifted among his friends. Some had been strangers when they’d assembled in Bilbo’s— _Buttercup’s_ —home in Bag End, but now, he knew each of them. Knew and trusted them. They’d walked a long road together. Thorin could not imagine better companions. They were more than friends. They were family. 

But one was missing, he realized, which he’d not expected. Why was she not with the Ri brothers? “Where is our burglar?” 

Oin was missing, too, but Thorin anticipated the healer would not seek his bed this night for the injured needing attention. Thorin recalled glimpses of Buttercup aiding Oin after the fighting had ceased. Was she still with the aged healer? 

“Saw her last with Bard’s children,” Bofur offered without removing the hat covering his eyes. Laying on his back, hands folded over his belly, the toymaker was the image of repose. An eye peeked out from beneath the hat’s brim. Bofur frowned. “You don’t think she’s in any danger, do you?”

The question immediately had the Ri brothers bolting upright on their pallets, each reaching for a weapon.

Thorin held up one hand, forestalling any mass exodus from the mountain. He’d noted how protective the entire Company had become, himself included, since discovering her gender. They’d all looked out for her to some extent when they’d mistaken her for a small hobbit male. Knowing her for female and watching her in battle taking on foes thrice her size had only augmented that. 

It had seemed obscene to him, seeing the smallest of them all rushing headlong into danger as if uncaring of any threat. _The result of reliving a day too many times,_ he concluded with anger. What, by Mahal, were the Valar thinking to permit such a thing and to rest so much weight upon such slender shoulders?

Thorin bristled with outrage. Their burglar was much changed, and gender was the least of it. She’d carried a burden heavy enough to bow the back of heroes, and she’d emerged… _honed,_ he labeled it. Fiercer and freer in her words and thoughts. 

A snort and intelligible mumble drew his attention to one side of the room. There, his sister-sons snored. Affection welled up within him. Buttercup had mentioned there had been deaths, but the hobbit had been vague. Were his nephews among the casualties she had labored to save? 

The thought gutted him, for Fíli and Kíli meant the world to him. By Durin’s mighty ax, Thorin had never been so proud of them. His sister-sons had conducted themselves with honor…while Thorin had not. 

Thorin rubbed one hand over his face. Dragon-sickness. Dís would be furious. How could he succumb to _dragon-sickness?_ They two had watched their grandfather’s descent into madness. Thorin had known the signs, yet still he’d fallen. 

The way he’d been drawn from it… He almost rubbed his face a second time. What, he asked himself, was he to made of the instant way he’d returned to sanity from one innocent kiss? How had their hobbit known to do such a thing? And how many times, he grumbled with eyes narrowing, had this played out? He hated not knowing.

Balin grunted as he seated himself beside him, their shoulders brushing. “You could do with a spot of sleep yourself,” Balin said, his too-shrewd eyes sliding sideways to glance at him.

“The same could be said for you,” Thorin responded without moving.

“True enough.” Balin cocked his head to one side. “You’re stewing.”

A hard glare told his friend to back off. “I am not stewing.”

“Aye, you are.” More softly, Balin added, “We’ve done it, lad. Erebor is reclaimed. We’ve faced the dragon and lived to tell the tale. Our people will be safe.”

Thorin’s eyes closed. Mahal, let it be more than that. He wished to see his people flourish. To see dwarflings filling these halls with their joyous squeals. To see the dams in safety, the sires not forced to eke out a beggar’s existence from mountains whose mines were all but played out. 

His thoughts returned to the missing burglar. _Buttercup._ An absurd name, but one that seemed to suit the cheerful and bubbly personality she’d hidden from them during their journey here. 

It did not do justice to her fiery side, however. 

_The Ris will fix that._ Unless Thorin was mistaken, those three would adopt her into their own line. With that would come a new name. His lips lifted. Thorin wondered how their burglar would take to that. 

His mind turned to that moment he’d blinked and found his mind free of gold-lust. The shock had not left him since for the hobbit had kissed him and uttered words she claimed were from a prior Thorin: _“Inkhir, uzbadê. Innikh dê. Kilmîn mafarrakh d’afrukh. Amrad inkh gagin ra gagin, Kidhuzel.”_

A warning, those words had been, to tread carefully where Buttercup’s feelings were concerned. After all she’d done for them, he would little wish to see her repaid by stomping on her heart. His prior self had inserted an endearment without the hobbit’s knowledge, and Thorin smirked to know he’d at least gotten one thing by his nosy, curly-haired friend. 

_Come away, my lord,_ the words equaled in Westron. _Return to me._ Ah, Westron failed to encompass the full measure of possessiveness the statement implied. _A crown is a heavy burden to bear. Death comes again and again, Kidhuzel._ Kidhuzel. Gold of golds and an endearment among his people. 

Not the most eloquent of statements, but Thorin had detected almost immediately that she had no idea what it was she said. _Death comes again and again._ She’d seen too much of it, and his prior self hand wanted him to know it. 

A thought. Turning to Balin, he asked, “Do you know the time?”

Balin’s gray eyebrows flew upwards. Then understanding lit his eyes, and not his alone. A number of the Company, hearing the question, sat up, frowns upon their faces. 

“It’s a hard truth to believe,” Gloin said.

“You think she’s lying?” Nori countered with the beginnings of insult.

“He didn’t say that,” Thorin said repressively. Then to Goin, “Aye, it is a difficult thing to believe. Yet, I do believe it.” After all he’d witnessed this day, he could not doubt.

More than one of his friends murmured agreement. Dwalin adamantly clung to his skepticism. 

“To be answering your question, laddie,” Balin said, showing Thorin his old pocket watch, “It’s going on ten.”

Thorin glanced at the dial. “Seven minutes.”

“Seven minutes, and it all starts over again,” Dori said, his fists tight about the travel-worn blanket over his legs. “We should have insisted she rest.”

“You tried,” Nori said with a half-smile. “Seems our new namad is as stubborn as you, fusspot.”

Dori swatted at his brother, and Nori ducked out of harm’s way with a smirk. 

Thorin stood and walked to his nephews. They alone slept, but then again, they two had always been heavy sleepers. Should he wake them?

 _To what purpose?_ Doubtless there would be nothing to see. One moment, they’d be talking. Or sleeping or even using the privy. The next, all would be erased. Every memory stolen from them of this day just as too many prior. 

_Stolen._ Aye, that was what it was, and Thorin liked it not. His memories were his own, and by the Maker, they should be sacrosanct. That they were tampered with set the tick in his jaw to twitching. 

“Well, then,” Bofur said, “if these are to be our last moments, lads…” He wiggled his eyebrows. “…should we not fill them with something interesting?”

“Interesting?” Gloin demanded. “And I object to your terms, toymaker. We’re not dying.”

“No, but he’s got a point,” Ori said softly, his face disturbed. Thorin was surprised when Ori turned not to Dori but to himself. “We lose everything that happened this day.”

Holding his gaze, Thorin slowly nodded, telling the scholar silently that he understood Ori’s distress. 

They waited, Balin recounting each minute’s passage. 

Until the clock struck 10:05pm. 

And nothing happened. The Company gazed at one another with confusion and yes—Thorin would admit it—relief. He little cared the thought of fading away to be replaced by an earlier version of himself. 

At 10:08pm, however, the world changed. It started with a rumble too low for ears to readily detect. It was there, yet not. Fíli and Kíli jumped from their bedrolls, eyes white.

Then came a rippling, a distortion in the very air as if the world was a sheet suddenly flapping in the wind. 

When it ceased, vanishing along with the deep and unsettling sound, Thorin staggered, only partially cognizant of the others equally affected. 

Suddenly, he remembered _everything._

OoOoOo

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, inhaled deeply as memories, a veritable avalanche of them, crashed down upon his head with graphic clarity. Hundreds if not thousands of days replayed themselves before his mind’s eye as the disparate Thorins who’d lived this day unified at last, painting a grim and heartbreaking picture.

The weight of what he discovered threatened to drive him to his knees.

 _Mahal._ Blind eyes stared unseeing at the opposite wall. So much death. So much heartbreak. Their hobbit, he thought distantly, had hidden much. 

The blankness faded from his eyes, and Thorin’s formidable temper roared to life, its focus directed solely in one direction: himself. _Durin’s beard._ Thorin’s pride—his fool arrogance and greed—had cost his beloved sister-sons their lives. _And over what,_ he asked himself bitterly. 

Trinkets. A throne that meant _nothing_ without his family.

Thorin’s attention rushed across the room, needing to assure himself his nephews yet breathed the air. Long strides carried him swiftly to where Kíli and Fíli stood with wounded eyes—proof enough to Thorin that they, too, were recalling the many times and ways tragedy had befallen them. His heart gave a pained beat for the injury he’d done them. 

Fíli saw him coming, and his heir’s eyes blinked back the glisten of tears. “Uncle,” Fíli said hoarsely. 

Thorin hauled both lads into his arms with desperate strength. He bowed his head over them, eyes closed. This…this was the most precious gift he could have been given. They _lived,_ by Mahal, and he’d never cease giving thanks for this miracle. 

“Forgive me,” he forced from a throat thick with tears. “Forgive me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Kíli, his voice muffled against Thorin’s neck. Precious Kíli. 

Thorin pressed his forehead to each of his sister-sons’ in turn. All three of them were bright of eyes—Thorin, too, teared up beyond his control, overcome with grief and anger and love. “Was it not?” he asked after releasing Kíli. 

His gaze swept past them to the rest of the Company, and from that single glance, he knew each was remembering the same endless cycle of this day as he. Bombur looked to be squeezing the life out of his brother, and Bifur had his arms around both. 

Mahal, but the memories racing through Thorin’s mind humbled him. Their burglar—the curly haired wonder that Thorin _should,_ by all the gold in Erebor, have recognized as female (it baffled him in hindsight to believe he’d ever once fallen for her act)—had wrought this happier outcome. With her blood, by her obstinate refusal to let Thorin and his sister-sons go, she would ever have his gratitude. 

His eyes closed again. He’d slain the lass— _slain_ her in his madness and held her as she’d told him they’d try again tomorrow. He remembered each of her attempts to draw him forth from dragon-sickness, even (a watery snort escaped Thorin) bombarding him with pine cones until he chased her around the treasury while her giggles rained down like fresh rain. 

“You kissed my sister.” 

At Nori’s proclamation, instant outrage flooded Thorin’s veins. Had one of the others _dared…?_ His eyes flew open and speared towards Nori, only to find it was Thorin Nori accused. The instinctive, overpowering anger subsided, replaced by…he could not yet name it. 

Thorin found himself the center of attention. His nephews, his friends, they all stared in disbelief. Bofur tugged upon one ear, his eyes flying from Nori to Thorin and back again. Gloin inspected Thorin as if he’d done something interesting…then his beard split with a tremendous grin. Ori blinked at him owlishly, and Dori? Dori tugged at his brother’s sleeve, hissing for answers.

Thorin met Nori’s stare, his chin dipping as he considered his response. Aye, he’d kissed Buttercup Baggins. He would lay the blame on months of her kissing him, but he’d not remembered them. No, the truth of the matter was that he’d been reeling that day from an onslaught of shocks. The Company’s inept yet ever faithful Bilbo had morphed into a lass, one willing to stand toe-to-toe with Thorin as few hazarded. 

She’d kissed him. By the Maker, she’d kissed Thorin with such yearning as to undo the hardest of hearts. She’d professed her love with words that had fair stunned and humbled him. 

Then, she’d rushed headlong into a death trap to protect him. (By Mahal, he’d be having words with her about that, he thought with a clenched jaw.) 

Aye, he’d seen all that and interest had sparked—an interest he’d succumbed to as she’d stood there, her delicate face earnest and framed by a wreath of adorable curls, and insisted that she’d died before, that it didn’t matter. He’d been outraged, a heartbeat from shaking sense into her, and instead, temptation had overcome him. Thorin had kissed her her.

With the memories of the last year— _more,_ a part of him corrected grimly—replaying through his mind, Thorin Oakenshield announced with as much seriousness as when he’d proclaimed his intention to reclaim Erebor, “I did. And I’ll be doing the same again.” 

His heart roared its agreement. Mahal help the fool who thought to stand in Thorin’s way. 

The King under the Mountain slowly began to stride towards the passage that would take him out Erebor’s gates. He had a hobbit to locate and some words to be speaking. The tick returned to his cheek, for he well remembered the many ways Buttercup had died, many of which _could have been avoided,_ by Durin. 

_You will not take such risks anymore,_ he promised her. He would ensure it. He was a fool, and well he knew it given the events of the long, repeated day. 

But not such a fool as to let the diminutive gift he’d been given to slip from his grasp. That hobbit was his, and he’d not let her go. Sooner the Arkenstone or any treasure in the mountain than his hobbit.

Nori fell in beside him, silent yet shooting him sideways glances.

“You have objections?” Thorin asked, shoulders bunching. He’d no wish to fight the Ris, but he would if need be. 

“Not a one,” the thief said with a smirk. “She’s over the moon for you, but I’m thinking you know that.”

Warmth ignited in his chest, and Thorin purred. Aye, he did. Little did their sweet burglar know that she’d sealed her own fate. All that exuberance and joy, all that selfless love and passion, it was his, and he was not about to let her go. 

Long had his life been cold and stark. Long had he stood alone. Aye, his people respected and cared for him, but the direct line of Durin was cursed, and the dams knew it. After Thror and then Thrain both ended in madness, what lass would join herself to a throne-less king of an impoverished people knowing she risked her own children succumbing as well?

He’d had no notion one could be dragged free of the sickness. To Thorin’s knowledge, it had been tried, but only by other dwarves. None could have imagined such efforts as Thorin’s Buttercup had dreamed up. 

_She’s over the moon for you,_ Nori had said. Thorin knew it well. Buttercup Baggins had proved her loyalty and devotion time and again. More, he was very aware that where he was concerned, she had no protections. Her heart was completely open to him, a fact that both filled him with fierce pride and humble appreciation. 

He vowed to never betray the trust she’d placed in him. “I do,” he responded quietly, the words rough with emotion.

“Good.” They marched side by side, the sound of heavy boots keeping pace behind them. 

A glance over one shoulder brought a smirk to Thorin’s lips. It seemed none of the Company was going to let their hobbit go. Not the Ris. Not himself. Not Bombur, Bofur or even Bifur. 

_Nor,_ he acknowledged, _are they willing to miss the show._ The events of the next few minutes were certain to be the stuff of tales, for there were many words needing to be spoken between Thorin and his Buttercup. Not all of them pleasant, but by the end, the king determined to have his curly-haired spitfire in his arms where she belonged. 

Kíli sped up to stand on Thorin’s opposite side. “Uncle?”

Thorin spared him a short, assessing glance. “You have something to say?” They crossed the threshold from Erebor’s gates onto the fields. Night sounds filled Thorin’s ears—those of crickets, and campfires, and the occasional hoot of an owl. Sprinkled among them were voices—elves and men and the deep, distinctive laughter of Thorin’s own kindred. 

If Buttercup was with Oin, she’d be among the healers’ tents, and it was in that direction Thorin pointed his steps. 

“I but warn you,” his youngest sister-son said. 

Thorin’s head whipped around, and his temper roiled dangerously. “You warn me off?”

His younger sister-son’s white teeth flashed. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I but meant to warn you. Fíli and I trained her. That trick you taught me to bring down a bigger foe? She knows it.” A pause, one ripe with amusement. “If you argue, watch her feet.”

Anger vanished, replaced by amusement. Given the many times Buttercup had turned the tables on him, Thorin intended to keep that warning in mind.

“Good tip,” Fíli added, grinning as most of the Company chortled. “Though I think she’ll lack heart in executing it against Uncle.”

Kíli thought, tapping his chin. Then he nodded. “You could be right.”

Fíli _was_ right. Thorin was no youngling. He’d centuries learning to read people, and his Buttercup possessed no ability to dissemble. She’d contort herself into knots if it would shield Thorin or any of the Company from hurt. The memory of her dying in his arms returned with a vengeance, followed by the remembered horror of the small hobbit facing Azog. 

No, Buttercup Baggins would never seek to harm Thorin. A cold knot in his gut said she’d die for him, even with time mended. Even knowing it would be permanent.

 _I’ll never permit it._ Aye, it was time for some hard words with his Buttercup. 

Thorin shook his head and turned from his sister-sons. His steps accelerated. Urgency began to creep into his pores. The hobbit didn’t know it yet, but she’d become vital to him. To all of the Company, he suspected. Thorin needed to clap eyes on her, to assure himself she was no dream. That she was safe. 

Nori again fell in by his side, one hand fiddling with a dagger in jerky motions. “Do you think she’s well?

Instantly, the thief had Thorin’s full attention. He halted his friend with one hand to his arm. “You’re worried.”

Nori faced the untidy rows of tents where the healers continued their work. His jaw, Thorin noted, was tight. “That, I am.” Nori’s eyes slid towards him. “She’s given up, Thorin. Said as much to me a time or two. She doesn’t believe the day will stop repeating. Aye, I’m worried. I’m worried about how she’ll react not only to the day ending, but to us remembering things I’m certain she counted on us forgetting.”

 _Counted on us forgetting._ That, Thorin thought, was a valid point. Reviewing his restored memories, he deemed the thief correct. Buttercup had shared more than she might have had it been otherwise. 

A thought. Another reason for his temper to rumble. If not for time’s loops, would his Buttercup have ever declared herself? Instinct said nay, and the notion that she’d have slipped away without Thorin ever being aware of what he’d lost outraged him further.

He thrust it aside with difficulty and focused upon Nori’s words. Yes, Buttercup’s innocent disclosures had benefited himself and her new family by giving them much needed insights into her fears and insecurities, but she would regret them now. He knew it in his bones. 

_She has naught to be ashamed of._ Nay, that was for Thorin and all the times he’d harmed her. 

Thorin placed one hand on his friend’s shoulder and faced him squarely. “A lass who will risk dragons, attack Azog, manhandle a gold-sick king and dare instruct _Thranduil_ daily on what he should do is not a lass who will quail before a new day. She’ll be shocked. She may suffer regret and embarrassment, but she won’t run or hide. Of one thing I am confident. That hobbit could never abandon this Company. Her love is too deep.”

Nori’s shoulders relaxed. “There’s still Bilbo.”

Thorin digested that as they returned to their ground-eating pace. Aye, there was Bilbo, and Thorin knew that Buttercup would return to the Shire at some point to mend her relationship with her brother. The thought did not sit well with him, for what if she changed her mind and decided to remain in the land of her birth?

 _No._ She would not abandon him. 

She could not. 

Despite the instant denial, a kernel of doubt was sown. What if she _did_ leave? 

So it was that when the Company reached the healing tents and found no Buttercup, Thorin’s voice turned sharp. “Split up,” he commanded, the tick returning to his cheek. “Find her.”


	18. The Consequences of Bearding a Dwarf

It started with a distant, rumbling noise. Buttercup’s head jerked up—she’d dozed off (a first—hooray!) and a sheet of brilliant green light flew by. As fast as it had started, it was over, leaving her blinking away afterimages and rubbing ringing ears. _Elves and dragons._ What was that?

 _Blat._ An icy finger of dread slithered its icky way up her spine. If anything changed, that dratted goblin could be the only source, and by the Shire, when she got her hands on him, she’d…she’d…

 _On second thought,_ she lopped that idea in twain like Thorin with his too-sharp ax. _Shing, shing,_ it fluttered to the recesses of her mind in pretty little ribbons. If Blat could now control powerful enough magics to fill the air with ominous rumbles and peculiar lights, then this hobbit was done. She quit. 

_Do You hear me,_ she said, mentally shaking a fist at Eru. _I quit! You can find another humperdink to…_ Thorin’s face popped into her mind. … _to_ … Followed by Nori, Dori and Ori’s. Legolas’s. Westley’s.

Oh, that was _so_ not fair. Eru did not hold His punches. A sudden suspicion. A narrowing of her eyes. Eru, she sniffed, must be a dwarf. 

Fine. She’d continue fighting. But she wished to make it known to Eru and his derelict-of-duty Valar that she was Not Happy in the most Thorin-like of terms.

“Westl—” Her words died the second her eyes clapped upon her pirate friend’s masked face. He sported the most censorious expression she’d seen since the time she and Bilbo had stampeded Farmer Stoutfoot’s flock of dairy goats as tweens, which had resulted in… Actually, that didn’t matter. 

She carefully inched away from the man. “What?”

The man clucked his tongue in a scolding fashion. “You,” he said, “have been less than forthcoming with me.”

She halted. Her brow creased. Try as she might, she couldn’t fathom what he might be talking about. Had Blat’s Goblin Light of Terror put a curse on her friend? One that rendered him incomprehensible? 

A black-gloved finger pointed at her nose. “You have been omitting information from our morning chats.”

Blink. Blink. Huh? 

“I distinctly remember instructing you in courtship gifts, but you have ceased from mentioning them at all. You feed your dwarves sporadically at best, and of late, I’ve not seen you create that favor for your king with a lock of your hair.” Another cluck of the tongue. “You, my friend, have been neglecting to inform me of my charge in an effort to avoid declaring yourself to your king. I dare you to deny it.”

“I kiss him, Westley.” One should think that spoke louder than a trinket. Besides, to her knowledge, Thorin had never worn the dratted thing. If he was going to disregard it, her hair was quite happy where it was, thank you very much.

“That is an evasion.”

“Every day,” she stressed.

Westley stared. Just…stared.

 _Confounded man._ She capitulated and amended her assertion. “Alright, _almost_ every day.”

“I have yet to hear a direct answer.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her cheeks reddened with the blush of the guilty. “I have more important tasks to see t—” Wait. She mentally reviewed his accusations. How would he know about his assignment unless… “You remember?” 

Beneath his mask, she detected one eyebrow arching upwards. “Obvious, is it?” he sallied in a bland voice, humor sparkling in his eyes.

Her breath caught. Truly? Had the Valar just blessed her with one other soul to share this strange existence with?

 _Not Thorin,_ her Tookish self pouted unhappily.

 _I don’t care,_ she sang back, bouncing her way back to sit beside her friend. 

He relented. “Yes, I remember,” he said, his eyes smiling. “Quite the adventure we’ve had. The tale is not quite fin— _oof.”_

She crashed into his chest, her arms winding around his neck. “You remember!” _Hoo-wee and pass the pie!_ Life was good! Life was grand! If she could just kiss Thorin once more this day, life would be perfect. 

Buttercup smiled happily and tightened her grip on her friend. 

He patted her on the back with one hand. “I’m happy this pleases you. In all fairness, however, I should warn you that I don’t believe I am the only one.”

Now what was that supposed to mean? Buttercup eased back with a frown and studied Westley’s face for clues. 

A nod of his head directed her attention to something behind her. 

Twisting at the waist, she glanced in the direction he indicated. Her eyes widened, and not the respectable size of teacups. Oh, no. That was small potatoes. Nor even saucers, mind! No, she fancied her eyes rivaled _platters_ for size the instant they beheld just what it was Westley wished for her to see. In a small voice, she said, “Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed,” her friend agreed. 

Together, they watched as a crowd gathered before them. At first, it was only men— _Only,_ a part of her grumbled—but then the Elvenking arrived with a whole entourage of elves. Bard emerged from the lord’s hall along with a couple of his men and Bain. More and more arrived. The friendly giant of a man she’d run into—Fezzik. A pleased-looking Bofur…and was that Bombur waddling away at high speed? 

Buttercup shook her head shortly. “Should we hide?” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

Every elf smiled, including the Elvenking, and Buttercup sank lower against the fountain. They’d all _heard,_ by Yavanna. Bilbo would have been horrified at her blunder. 

“I do believe it too late,” Westley said, not only not dismayed but amused, the dastardly pirate. (She speared him with a short glare.) 

Elves and dragons. They all stared at her. Not Westley, not at the confounded sky that had lit up so spectacularly. At. Her. Each and every blessed one of them wore the same infernally too-knowing expression that had squatted itself on Westley’s face. 

Oh, no. No, no, no. Truly? Could this be happening? If they all remembered, why… Images raced through her mind. The dismissive way she’d treated pretty much everyone at one point or another. (She’d been _busy,_ confound it!) The handful of pranks she’d played on those who’d unknowingly (or knowingly) slighted herself or her Thorin. Or Thranduil. Oh, alright, anyone unmannerly enough to insult anyone she’d taken a liking to. (She was not discriminatory.) She winced, recalling the pile of garbage she’d arranged to fall on one elf lord’s head after he’d sneered and used such scathing terms for Thorin.

On second thought, she didn’t regret that. She struck that from her list.

Gandalf arrived. _Good,_ she thought with a huge dollop of relief. He’d fix this. He’d…

A watch appeared an inch before her nose, dangled there by a bronze chain held by a gloved hand. She almost swatted the dratted thing away. If time reset, good. The sooner this wretched scene was disrupted, the better. 

“Westley, this is not the…” Her breath hitched. There, plain as day, his watch proclaimed the time: 10:21pm. “Ten twenty-one,” she said without inflection. “Ten twenty-one?” She rubbed her eyes and tried again. “Westley, why does it say ten twenty-one?” Her head whipped around. “It’s broken?”

“It is not broken,” he said for her ears alone. “The day is done. Our memories are returned. You saw the light in the sky. I believe the Valar and Eru have at last intervened.”

Wait. Wait. What? Her mind was as slow to understand the words as if he’d uttered them in an unknown language. In her world, they no longer made sense.

 _The day is done._ The day was done? How could it be done? How had it not been done _a wretched year or two ago?_

Done. _Pfft!_ Of course it was done. The Valar had upset the applecart of her life once, why not a second time? 

A chill brushed over her. _Memories returned._ The Elvenking stepped forward, but she heard not one word he said over the roaring in her ears. Day done. Memories returned. They remembered. The elves, the men, all of them. 

Beyond the Elvenking’s lithe form, Thorin materialized a distance down the street. Thorin, with a thunderous and intent expression darkening his face, a grim and squinty-eyed Dwalin on his right hand and a worried Dori on the other.

By Yavanna, Dori was wringing hands. Why was Dori—?

 _Thorin remembers, too._ Oh. No. 

Every confounded kiss, every insult, and indignity she’d heaped upon the dwarf’s head—including that icy bucket of water that had been so _fun_ at the time—replayed in vivid color. A tiny whimper escaped her. This could not be good.

The (apparently) out-of-work Mistress of Time knew battles. With many under her belt, she recognized a losing situation when she saw it. She took one last look at the oncoming storm ready to break over her head, jumped to her feet, and skedaddled. 

Except her pedaling feet lost traction before she cleared the fountain. A weight attached itself to the waistband of her pants. It didn’t pull her backwards, but it sure wasn’t giving ground, either. A glance, and she frowned. A whine escaped her (too embarrassing!), “Nadad.”

Nori smirked. “Goin’ somewhere?”

Buttercup cleared her throat and collected the ragged tatters of her dignity. _(If I’ve any left,_ a part of her lamented.) “Yes, as a matter of fact. I have a most urgent task I must see to.” A sideways glance out of the corner of one eye revealed Thorin was now within the courtyard and closing in fast. Back to Nori. “Most urgent.” She bobbed up and down a couple times. “Really.” Another nervous glance towards Thorin.

Nori drew her closer by the back of her pants. When he had her standing before him, he released her pants but wrapped both arms around her. His chin settled on the crown of her head. 

“Traitor,” she muttered.

“What’s that?” Nori asked innocently. “Was that you admitting I just saved you the humiliation of running away like a wee spooked bunny?”

She kicked backwards and hit his shin. Then she shook the offended foot as instead of harming him, her poor foot came out the loser. Why, the heel was numb and the rest of it tingled with pinpricks. 

The dwarves’ creator, she thought with a dollop of outrage, was a bit of a cheat. Dwarves were altogether too confoundedly stone-like: not only absurdly strong and stubbornly immovable as a mountain, but their bodies were like granite. 

Her foot was forgotten as Thorin prowled nearer, the brilliant blue of his eyes blazing hotly as they seared into hers. They left her both nervous and breathless. _Oh…my._ Dangerous or not, the dwarf had never looked more scrumptious, and _this_ hobbit had a huge appetite for Thorin-watching. 

Thranduil stepped partially between them, interrupting the contact. Nori’s body stiffened against hers, and his grip on her slackened as he straightened. Buttercup patted his arm absently, her own worries fading in light of the ill concealed hostilities sparking between the two sovereigns. 

It caused her to question. “Nori?”

“Aye?”

“Light in sky. Big noise. You _do_ remember…?” She left the question flopping dejectedly in the wind, but Thorin grew in height and girth before her eyes at whatever passed between himself and Thranduil. It stole the thought right from her head. Her lips parted. 

_He is amazing,_ her Baggins self declared. The Took side patted her on the head, happy she was in accord.

“Everything, Namad. Every accursed thing.” 

Nori had her instant and full attention. From the white-lipped, hard eyed expression her middle nadad wore, when he meant everything, he meant just that. The death. The defeat. The endless recital of the same horrific battle. 

“I wish I could have spared you,” she said in a small voice, tugging on his sleeve.

Nori’s attention dropped to her. “You,” he groused, “did too much. We’ll be having a chat later about leaving us to mourn over your body more than once.”

Ahem. And with that, perhaps it was time to excuse herself. _Before_ Thranduil and Thorin exchanged more than glowers. “Maybe I should—” 

She didn’t even manage a full step before Nori’s hand was locked around the waistband of her pants. “Where is it you think you’re going?”

Where did he think she was going? _Honestly,_ she huffed. “Is this grabbing one’s pants a common practice among you dwarves, or am I just lucky?”

“Who else…?” Nori’s eyes belatedly lit, and a knowing grin flashed. Instead of asking for details—she suspected that would come eventually—he said, “It’s a standard method of corralling a dwarfling bent on mischief. They’re strong enough to rip right through their clothes, so grabbing their shirt’s an act of futility unless you’re netting a wee lassie.” He smirked. “Grabbing the pants stops them every time. You’ll not find many ready to risk that much of their dams’ wrath that they’d race through our halls in their never minds.”

The image filling her mind tilted her lips upwards into a smirk as potent as Nori’s. The picture of precocious, pouting dwarflings with their arms crossed, chins jutting out as an adult held their pants… Oh, but it was an adorable thought. 

It sent a different kind of pang through her. One she hadn’t expected. 

A child. A black-haired, blue-eyed, slightly bearded lad with pointed ears and hairy feet popped into existence in her mind’s eye. The longing to see that child realized punched her hard. 

Her Took side, she grumbled to herself, cheated as much as the dwarves’ Mahal, tempting her with that. What was she supposed to do to encourage that along? _Throw_ herself at the dwarf king? 

_Yes,_ her Tookish nature pounced. _Yes, yes, YES!_ It bopped around with glee, urging her on by holding up the image of that dwarfling and waving it before her face.

Bother.

All thoughts of the child, Tookish nonsense, and throwing oneself at Thorin evaporated when she overheard Thranduil say in his cool voice, “I would warn you to tread carefully when you address the hobbit, King under the Mountain. She has been named Elf Friend. My people will not hesitate to intervene if we deem it necessary.” 

What? Elf—what? 

Thorin, being Thorin, stood tall. And there it came—his Glare of Imminent Doom blasted up at the other king as Thorin’s chin dipped that ominous inch. “Mistress Baggins is a member of my Company. She is in no need of any protection but ours.” Beside him, Dwalin nodded shortly. Dori continued fretting and hand-wringing. 

As if he’d issued his final word on the matter—knowing Thorin (sigh), he had—the too-appealing dwarf stalked past the elf, his blue eyes again focused upon her. Intently. Fiercely. 

Right. Memories. An oncoming serving of Thorinal retribution. 

Buttercup gulped. Straightening her tunic, she pasted an uncertain smile onto her face. _Oh, by the Shire._ Did _every_ eye in the vicinity have to be on her? Not only Thranduil and Bard and Westley, but all the men in the courtyard plus Bofur and Bombur who now stood behind Dwalin, and Tauriel watched from a rooftop along with Legolas, and… 

She stopped looking. _Don’t want to know._ Her blush reached the tips of her ears, she was sure. 

“I would have words with you,” Thorin said, and for the life of her, she couldn’t determine whether he was furious, angry, slightly angry, or perhaps (she crossed her fingers and ignored Nori’s soft snort) amused. His eyes smoldered, though, and she suspected it was not a good sign.

Thorin stepped closer, and Buttercup retreated an equal distance, tripping over Westley’s legs. (Was this really the time for the pirate to be sitting?)

With flailing arms, she kept her balance, then retreated a few more steps as Thorin stalked closer. He, she noted, stepped over Westley without slowing or mishap. “Should we maybe wait and discuss this in the morning?” she tried hopefully.

His expression lightened not one little bit. Thorin stalked after her, and she scooted backwards a few more feet, her path following the fountain’s curve. “Every morning,” he said in a gravelly voice, “you ventured into the treasury.” An accusation? Condemnation? 

What could she say? They both knew it was true. “Yeeees,” she drew out, nervously backing away in tandem with his every stride. 

“You placed yourself in danger.” The words dipped even lower in tenor.

 _Definitely some anger there._ “Uh-huh.”

He continued forward. She continued backing away. What anyone else thought, she didn’t know—the rest of the world had ceased to exist. It was only Thorin and Buttercup. 

“You used that evil ring, which we _will_ be discussing,” he assured her with nostrils flared, “to sneak about the battlefield. You fell, Mistress Baggins, to both enemies and allies’ weapons because _they could not see you.”_

She winced, nodding. No, Thorin was Not Happy about that. At all. Buttercup’s fingers twisted into sizable knots at her waist. “Yes.”

“Then, you decided it would be a fine idea to assault me _while I was yet trapped in madness.”_

“Yes?” Was that the wrong answer then?

Onward they went, Thorin stalking with accusations and Buttercup retreating. Each time she reached Westley, she tripped, but the dratted man never moved. 

Suddenly, the absurdity hit her. Truly, a part of her giggled hysterically, if nothing changed, she and Thorin would be going round and round the fountain for hours like faunts playing Around the Mulberry Bush. The comparison was so apt a nervous titter escaped her.

Oh, dear. Had she done that out loud? Thorin’s gaze heated, and a gleam lit within those magnificent blue eyes of his that sent a thrill through her. He crooked a finger at her, commanding her nearer. 

Buttercup debated the wisdom of heeding him…and not heeding him. By Yavanna, his mood was difficult to judge. Yes, he was furious at some of her actions, but underneath she detected something else, something she had trouble labeling. 

She inched forward. He must have grown impatient, for he closed the distance between them with his bigger strides, and she immediately returned to her backward scramble. 

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” 

“Your hair looks nice?” One hand slapped over her blabbing lips, but it was too late. There was no unsaying it, and her eyes widened. Yes, Thorin looked magnificent and yummy and all those adjectives, but this was _not_ the time.

His next step faltered mid-stride before resuming its steady onward progression. “Duly noted.” Step. Step. “You placed yourself in harm’s way,” he repeated. “I _beheaded_ you, Mistress Baggins. In Erebor, I stabbed you. Yet you returned. Time and again, you insisted on returning to my side.”

Well, yes. She nodded and skittered backwards a few more steps. Then, she tripped on her pirate. 

Buttercup tossed the pirate a scowl, but he did not move. No, he sat like a lump, a tiny smile on his lips and arms crossed before his chest, all set to enjoy the show. He was a traitor, too. 

Speaking of, where was…? She speared her nadad a glare. He’d _left her,_ the wretch, and joined Dori. The two watched intently, but elves and dragons, they did not lift so much as a finger to defend her. 

That was when she stopped in her tracks. Her chin lifted. She was a Baggins, Took, _and_ Ri. By the Shire, _this_ hobbit was done running.

She reversed course, stomping forward until she could poke the dwarf in his (terribly appealing) chest. “Of course I did, you mule-headed humperdink. And you know what?” A part of her buried its head in one palm. Was she a faunt now to use such terms? 

The rest of her ignored it and proudly proclaimed, “I would do it again in a heartbeat. You are worth it. To me, you are worth _everything._ So yes, I returned. I have bled and died and even charged Azog to protect you. Why? Because I believe in you, you dolt. I will _always_ believe in you.” 

A fine tremor shook through Thorin’s body, and his eyes blazed a fiery blue hotter than any dragon’s fire. That dreaded tick returned to twitch his cheek.

 _Perhaps a bit much,_ her Baggins self suggested nervously.

Buttercup retrieved her finger. Modulating her voice to something softer and rawer, she said, “Every single morning, I wake up, I tell our allies what the day will hold, and then I hurry to Erebor to yank you from the dragon-sickness. You, Thorin Oakenshield, are the most hard-headed, _infuriating_ male to walk across Arda, but idiot me, there is no one I will ever love more.”

He seemed to swell in stature, his face stark and so very intense, and she didn’t know what to think of it. 

Buttercup sniffled away sudden tears, hurting and embarrassed and so in love with the big fool that she couldn’t contain it. She dashed one tear off her cheek, her eyes skirting away from his. “If this is about me kissing you, I’m sorry you are offended. I know I overstepped, and it was terribly forward and hoydenish of me, but I’m not sorry I did it. It may be all I’ll ever have of you, and well do I know it. I’m not worthy of a king. But these memories are _mine_ and I’ll never regr—”

A hand snaked outward and claimed her wrist. Buttercup’s head jerked upward, wide-eyed as the King under the Mountain slowly reeled her in, his face inscrutable. Despite that, her heart took to pounding. Was it excitement? Fear?

 _“Thatrê,”_ Thorin murmured in the gentlest of voices. His opposite hand smoothed a curl from her forehead before trailing down her cheek to her chin and sending her heart into spasms of delight. “You have burgled from me again, Buttercup Baggins, but this time, I intend you to keep what you’ve stolen.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip, eyes wide, then gasped as he drew her still closer, one strong arm lifting her clean off her feet and pinning her to his chest. 

“My heart, _Thatrê.”_ Blue, blue eyes burned into hers. 

His…heart? 

Before she could recover from the shock of his proclamation (his _heart?),_ Thorin Oakenshield continued gruffly, “I swear, I will never relinquish yours.” He dipped his head and tenderly—so exquisitely gently—sealed her lips with his. 

_Elves and dragons._ Thorin was _kissing her!_ Her fingers slowly curled around his coat, disbelief smothered under a landslide of bliss. A small, helpless hum escaped her. 

Thorin reacted instantly. His hold turned rougher. Tighter. One hand buried itself in her curls and tilted her head just so. She had time for one gasp, then his kiss intensified, heating until she felt in imminent danger of combusting. 

Her last coherent thought? It was _totally_ unfair that _now_ he kissed her…when she couldn’t replay the day again. (Grumpy Buttercup mentally shook a fist at the Valar.)

OoOoOo

The kiss could well have gone on forever so far as Buttercup was concerned, but all too soon, Dori positioned himself by Thorin’s elbow and cleared his throat loud enough to disrupt her Moment. (She’d have glared at him for that, but her eyes seemed to be having trouble on focusing on anything but Thorin’s lips.

Forget his broad chest, his brilliant eyes. Thorin’s lips were her new favorite feature, hands down.

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you,” Dori said with arms folded before his chest. He took one look at Buttercup’s face and huffed. “This isn’t altogether proper, Thorin Oakenshield,” he dared scold. 

“Is it not?” Thorin asked in a mild voice. One hand delved into her curls, lifting a few locks for his inspection, and to Buttercup’s bafflement, he looked upon them as he’d once looked upon his gold. 

It was then that reality began to return, dashing a measure of her contentment. Chills went through her body, doubts mixed with hope and longing. He’d said that she’d stolen his heart. Dare she believe it? 

“You remember,” she said, desperate to be convinced she had not descended into her own brand of madness. 

“I do.” His forehead dropped to hers, not for a second releasing her gaze. “I remember a hobbit who refused to give up on me.” The intensity of his words and stare sent shivers through her, and his grip tightened in response. “I remember being pelted with pine cones and drenched in cold water.” A smirk. “An appalling way to treat one’s king.”

The pad of his thumb halted her objections, and his smile faded. “I remember your deaths, Buttercup.” Here, Thorin’s voice turned pained. “So many times.” One hand lifted to tug upon one of her curls. “It never kept you from my side.”

Of course not. She wasn’t quite _that_ foolish, thank you very much. “You beat the sickness by yourself, Thorin. That first time,” she said. The fingers of her right hand snuck upwards without her permission (bad fingers!) to gingerly caress his jaw—all the while Buttercup boggling that he welcomed her touch. The prickle of his beard mesmerized her—facial hair was unheard of among hobbits. “I knew you were in there, Thorin. I knew you could defeat it.”

“And so you kissed me. Every day.”

“She did what?” Fíli’s surprise burst the bubble, reminding her that this was no private moment between herself and Thorin. No, the _entire_ Company looked on—minus Oin—as well as dozens of men and elves, many sporting private smiles. 

Her adoration for Thorin had been a poorly kept secret, she admitted, but confound it, _none of them were supposed to remember!_

Buttercup fiddled with Thorin’s jacket, flicking off imaginary lint as her cheeks flamed red. She attempted a light tone. “As Westley said, there was no sense in searching for other solutions since we already knew…” 

Thorin’s slow shake of the head demolished her badly constructed evasion. “I doubt it was Westley who encouraged that first kiss.” She averted her gaze, finding a sudden fascination with his throat. Really, throats had never done _anything_ for her before, but Thorin’s was truly enthralling. Truly.

Just not so wondrous as his lips. 

Thorin snorted. His attention shifted beyond her. “Your counsel ensured Buttercup returned to me day by day. That she kissed me each morning.” Then to her shock, Thorin said with grave sincerity, “I owe you a tremendous debt. Thank you.”

Westley answered with matching solemnity. “At your service.”

“Why?” Thorin asked. “Why did you intervene?”

A light footstep alerted her that Westley drew nearer. “This is true love. Do you think it happens every day?” The pirate clucked his tongue. “I have seen it but once in another maiden’s eyes. I recognized it in your hobbit’s. True love cannot be denied. It can be delayed, but time itself will stand still for true love to find completion.” 

What? Buttercup dangled her head backwards, spilling her curls downward. Westley came into view, albeit upside down. “Wait. You believe time stopped for _me?”_

Westley smiled his private smile. “For true love,” he corrected. 

Westley, she decided once and for all, was the superlative romantic. And by the Shire, his Buttercup had better take good care of his heart or _this_ Buttercup would kick the other in the—

“You will ever be welcome in my kingdom,” Thorin said softly. 

Buttercup jerked upright so fast, her head whirled like a top. Westley would be welcome in Erebor? Before she could throw joyful arms around Thorin’s neck—just what _were_ the chances she could convince Westley and his Buttercup to settle with them?—Thorin subjected her to a very intense scrutiny. 

“You were with me when I died that first day,” he said. “After my foolishness had gotten my sister-sons killed.” Self-recrimination lurked in the syllables, and no doubt, but also a dollop of anger. “You said nothing then about your true name. Nothing of your heart or your devotion. Did I not deserve to know?”

Her fingers, emboldened by his passionate kisses, brazenly refused to resist temptation one minute longer. They delved into the beard that so fascinated her. A tiny smile lifted her lips, for Thorin did nothing to stop the intimacy. 

An upward peek, and she hesitantly explained, “You knew me as Bilbo. You didn’t know _me,_ Thorin, not really, and… I’m just a hobbit. I’m no match for a king. You deserve— _Ow.”_

She slapped a protective hand over her left ear. Thorin frowned blackly, but despite his displeasure, she knew he was not the perpetrator. Her gaze flew to Nori, who had snuck up behind her. _Tricky, nadad. Very tricky._

Nori pointed one finger at her nose. “I’ll be flicking your ears each time I hear such words from you.”

“Hear what?” she asked, the shielding hand not budging an inch. 

Ori stepped closer, displacing Nori. “You are not _just_ anything,” he said, and to her consternation, even he sounded irritated. “You are our sister. I don’t know what silliness you learned from your people, but we dwarves treasure our lasses.”

“We’ll teach her better,” Dori said, earning Ori’s hearty agreement.

 _Teach me…?_ “There is nothing wrong with how hobbits treat their females,” she exclaimed, but her words fell on deaf ears. Foolish girl. What did she expect? They fell on _dwarf_ ears. 

“Ya think we should give her hobbit brother a talking to?” Bofur asked, and from his expression, she was horrified to realize he was serious.

“There’s nothing wrong with Bilbo,” she tried. “He’s a perfectly wonderf—”

“Not a bad idea, lad,” Gloin said, his big fingers tucking around his belt. “We’ll give him instructions.”

 _Instructions?_ “What?” she squawked. “Don’t you dare. Thorin!” 

Thorin, the wretched, lifted both eyebrows, his eyes mild when they turned to her. He didn’t look inclined to intervene. Why, he looked like he agreed. 

She gave his beard a tug, not enough to hurt (much) but enough to tell him she meant business. “My brother doesn’t deserve this, Thorin Oakenshield. You can’t let Bofur sic the Company on him.”

He weighed her words. 

She gasped in outrage. “I can’t believe you would let them threaten my brother!”

“Instruct,” Thorin corrected calmly.

But… “Dwarves don’t _instruct._ They growl and intimidate folks into seeing things their way.” Beyond her dwarves, Thranduil’s smile flashed. 

Oh, he did _not_ just find this funny. Why that rotten—

“No more denigrating yourself,” Nori interrupted. “Seems fair to me. You cease putting yourself down, and we leave your brother in peace.”

Thorin nodded as if hearing a grand idea. 

But… But… “I’m not denigrating myself.”

“Aren’t you, _Thatrê?”_ At Thorin’s soft words, her focus zoomed back to him. “You may be blind to your worth. For now,” he added ominously. “We are not.”


	19. Value

Sleep eluded her. Balin’s pocket watch rested in Buttercup’s hands, pressed up near one ear—proof the kind dwarf had loaned her that time had marched past the twenty-third of November by men’s standard. Though the fire in the hall the Company shared had died out, leaving them in darkness, her ears detected the watch’s ticks, a steady assurance that it—whatever _it_ had been—was over.

Her belly knotted. Thorin had set his eyes upon her with an intensity that left her both excited and terrified. He’d kissed her. The King under the Mountain had kissed her, and it had been no tame, respectable kiss, either. He’d kissed like a dwarf who meant it, and she knew better than most that Thorin was not one to feign. If he held a person in contempt, that person knew it. If he adored them, he took pains to demonstrate it. He was not a poet, and he was not one to fall on his knees to profess undying love, but by his actions, he proved his heart.

Yes, it was all Thorin’s fault she couldn’t sleep. The big galoot had turned the tables so radically, her head continued to spin. She’d anticipated his fury, not impassioned kisses and smoldering Durin-blue eyes. 

_Fiddlesticks._ It was no use. She couldn’t sleep no matter how a part of her cried out for just _one confounded night_ of rest.

Grumbling—silently since her brothers and the rest of the Company snored their exhaustion quite convincingly—she grabbed one of her daggers with its sheath and tip-toed from the room, stepping around (and over when she found her path blocked by Bifur and Bofur’s outstretched legs) her friends until she won free. On soft feet, she headed for the ramparts. 

The night was cold, winter’s bite deeper than it had been hours before. Shivering with arms around herself, she nodded at the guards Dain or Thorin must have ordered on watch. Buttercup greeted each, for she knew them all, and now, they knew her too, a fact that thrilled her to her freezing toes. She walked to one end of the balcony, facing west. There, she managed to plunk elbows on an intact section of railing designed for taller people than herself and set her chin down on top of her folded arms. 

“Should you not have a coat, Mistress Baggins?” the unusually dark-complected Magni asked. 

Her head pivoted on her chin, showing him her smile. “I’m fine, Magni. I won’t be out here long.”

Red-haired Kivari sniffed his disapproval. “We’ll be holding you to that.”

And that, she thought, her gaze returning to the scenery beyond, was why she loved these dwarves. Some treated her with a touch of reserve—the Iron Hills dwarves were not used to dealing with the other peoples of Arda—but by and large, they were some of the warmest folk she’d ever met. 

_Once you get past their suspicions._ Then in fairness, she added, _and if you aren’t an elf._ Her own friendship with elves was sure to annoy them.

Buttercup inhaled deeply. Clouds had moved in, blotting out the stars. Though she could not see them in the darkness, she knew the Misty Mountains towered somewhere ahead. Beyond them, far beyond even an elf’s sight, the Shire slept. Doubtless Bilbo had cooked himself a hearty meal, sipped tea by the fireplace while reading one of his beloved books, and retreated to his soft bed hours ago.

Was he alright? How badly had her actions wounded him? 

Would he forgive her? 

By Yavanna, she missed him. With their parents’ deaths, each was all the other had left but for cousins they held little in common with. Her eyes smarted as remorse clogged her throat. Buttercup had wronged her brother grievously, and her heart wept for the pain she’d done him. While trapped reliving the same day, there had been nothing she could do to rectify matters. No message would reach him, and she could not fly to him in time even with the eagles’ help. Her hands had been tied.

That was no longer true. Somehow, she had to make this right.

A scuffle warned her a split-second before a heavy coat dropped over her shoulders, one carrying her new favorite and deliciously exotic fragrance: eau d’ Thorin. Temptation proved too much. She clutched the coat close and wiggled to rub it all over her. (Bad hobbit! Scandalous hobbit!) She smirked to herself, supremely confident that it would be her secret. In the dark, there was no way Thorin would see anything more than his burglar snuggling for warmth.

Like the cat, she was more than happy with the results of her labor.

The coat’s owner leaned on the banister to her left, close enough to share his warmth. “You should be asleep.”

“So should you.” Her lips curled. How not when Thorin kept her company?

“I would be,” he said, his voice rumbled through her as she leaned into him. “Had my _thatr_ stayed put.” She detected the smile in his voice. “You do seem fond of removing things from me.” A peek upwards confirmed there was no trace of resentment or anger upon his face. He teased. 

She bumped his leg with her hip. “Not fair, Oakenshield. I have no idea what a _‘thatr’_ is.”

A part of her tried to warn that this tenderness would surely fade, that he’d realize how inappropriate she was for him and move on. Buttercup refused to let that fear steal this from her. Each moment with Thorin would be treasured no matter what the outcome. 

His eyes met hers. “I am unsure what a ‘humperdink’ might be, yet I distinctly recall you naming me this more than once.”

Oh, he was in high humor this night. Her own lips curled. “So _I’m_ this _‘thatr’?”_

“You are.” Noncommittal. She gleaned nothing off his face whether it was good or bad, though her inner Took squealed, jumping up and down that _Thorin_ had used an _Endearment._ In capital letters. Underscored. Embossed, too.

Her belly chose that moment—of all confounded times—to rumble loudly. Her promise to gorge herself just a soon as time righted had been consumed by the larger need to bury herself in the Company’s camaraderie. To remain near Thorin and wonder at the day’s turn of events. It almost felt if she blinked, the Thorin who looked at her with such intensity would vanish, and she would once again find herself on Dale’s walls. 

Thorin pivoted, frowning. “Have you eaten nothing this night?”

Huh. She had a feeling he would not approve if she told him the truth. The last bite of food she’d ingested had been the stolen half of his sandwich and that had been… _A long time ago._ “Food has not been a priority,” she dodged.

The King under the Mountain reared his head, displacing the milder Thorin she saw too rarely. “When did you last eat?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Using the arm he’d curled around her, Buttercup found herself marched past the Iron Hills dwarves—she waved at them, and she heard Kivari mutter, “Small lass like that has no business out in this cold” _(Hey!)_ —and past the hall where the Company had set up camp.

OoOoOo

Thorin took her to the nearest kitchens. _The kitchens,_ she squealed. The instant they entered the large, rectangular space, she bobbed on her feet in anticipation. This, she thought in delight, she would relish. In the bat of an eye, she’d shoved his jacket at him, and she was off, poking into its corners.

Someone had already been at work here. The grime was gone, and one open hearth had a low fire crackling in its belly. Why, this kitchen was larger than her smial! A _kitchen._ It boggled the mind, and she turned in a slow circle from the center of the room, drinking in the sight of multiple wood-burning stoves, big porcelain sinks, counters topped with fat slabs of granite and an island that stretched all the way down the long space. 

This, she thought in awe, was the King of all Kitchens. (Why some fool had named Thror for his fountains—pshaw!—when beauties like these resided here, she couldn’t imagine.) 

“I don’t remember getting this reaction over the mithril shirt you wear,” came Thorin’s lazy voice from back near the entrance. By a small clatter, she knew he fiddled with something, but she was too intent in exploring this space to see what he was up to.

Kitchens. By the Shire, she’d missed time in a kitchen. The heat of an oven. (She passed one and cooed, hands outstretched as she thrilled at the warmth it emanated.) The wondrous scents of cinnamon and cloves and ginger. Fresh baked bread. Honey. In no time at all, her mouth watered and her stomach grumbled all the more insistently.

 _Soon,_ she told it. 

Come morning, Buttercup Baggins, warrior hobbit, would shed her weapons and reveal her alter ego: Baker Extraordinaire! _No. That isn’t right._ It lacked a certain ring. She mentally snapped her fingers. Pastry Maven! Mwahaha—bad food of Arda be afraid. 

Title decided, she continued her explorations. Buttercup had avoided the kitchens up to this point. Other than noting their presence, she’d let them be. Nothing was sadder than an empty, dusty kitchen, and since she’d had no way to set them to rights without provisions and a good mop and bucket, she’d avoided them.

Thorin’s quiet chuckle belatedly returned her to the fact that he’d spoken. _Rude, Buttercup._ His assertion, she thought, was correct. She was more excited over a kitchen than she’d been to receive the mithril shirt. In hindsight, she couldn’t thank him enough, and she vowed to rectify her lukewarm thanks shortly. 

“Dwarves think more in terms of war and battle,” she said, her voice echoing as she poked her head into a cold oven near the back of the space, gaping at the incredible size of the thing. Then she bounced through a small, door-less entryway beside it. “We hobbits are—” A gasp. “A _pantry?_ Thorin! There’s food in here!” 

That fast, she was leaning back into the main room, one arm clinging to the door sill to keep her upright. “When did you get food?” Then she went absolutely still. “Are you…cooking?”

He smirked. Gone was the heavy coat—he’d draped it over a chair—and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing arms liberally dusted with black hair. He held a big knife in one hand, and a sack of potatoes slouched on the long, rectangular island by the cutting board before him. Beside that…

“No meat,” she hurried to say, rushing over to him. The red leg of lamb turned her stomach, so she averted her gaze. She eyed the way he held the knife. “Do you know how to cook?”

A flat look slid her way. “I assisted my sister in both raising and feeding her sons. Yes, I know my way around a kitchen.”

Thorin could _cook._ She watched, slack-mouthed, as he proceeded to do just that: cutting potatoes into wedges and tossing them into a big copper pot. She absently fanned herself, enthralled. Determined Thorin and Kingly Thorin were amazing and handsome and worth staring at for hours. Kitchen Thorin? 

_Irresistible._ She prowled over to him, then ignoring the baffled blue eyes staring down at her, she pried the knife from his hands and shoved both cutting board and potatoes to one side. Buttercup hopped onto the counter before him, grabbed him by his beard, and tugged his lips down to hers. 

Kitchen Thorin was too much for a simple hobbit to resist.

Thorin responded with alacrity, and soon, all thoughts of food or pantries went poof faster than Smaug could have managed. There were lips and murmured endearments—which she could not understand, but she decided to complain about that later…much later. Maybe. Thorin kissed her, and she kissed him, and it was the stuff of dreams.

And that was when her confounded stomach growled its displeasure. Thorin froze. He pulled back, breathing heavily. “You, _thatrê,_ are more temptation than a dwarf can handle.” 

Buttercup blinked and attempted to catch her breath. Resist? Why resist? Kissing was her new favorite pastime now that he kissed her back.

The dwarf growled and cupped the base of her skull in his hands. “Unless you wish to wed this night and find yourself in my bed, you’d best cease from staring at me like that.”

Her spine snapped straight. What? 

“Better,” he said, the words enticingly growly. His hands dropped to either side of her hips, and he hung his head. The muscles along his shoulder and back were delineated by tension. (She tried not to drool.) “Mahal.” One blue eye appeared. Heated. “You,” he said in a raw voice that tore at her, “are warmth and light.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “You wonder how a king could want you. I wonder how the hobbits in the Shire could be so blind.” 

She sat rooted, her heart slamming into her breastbone as Thorin straightened with nostrils flared. Though tension radiated from his body, the hands that cupped her face were exquisitely gentle. “So many empty decades of struggle and deprivation, we suffered since our exile.” His forehead came to hers, and his face twisted until lined with a remembered pain that broke her heart. Buttercup responded instinctively, threading fingers through his hair. 

Thorin’s eyes snapped open. “I tried. Over and over again, I sought ways to keep my people safe, to keep their bellies filled and the dwarflings protected, yet so often, bad turned to worse.”

 _Elves and dragons._ She’d known of her dwarves’ exile, but his words painted it with grimmer, starker colors. She could envision it: Thorin all but destroying himself to keep his people alive and together. Her fingers slid forward to brush across his forehead, and she leaned in to kiss the edge of his mouth. “You have carried a heavy weight.” So different, their lives had been. Hers had been one of ease but for the Fell Winter and the harsh tongues of gossips. 

“You are my gift.” Blue, blue eyes seared hers with icy heat. “A bright light after years of darkness. Warmth after cold madness. You, Buttercup Baggins, are worth more than all the treasure stored in this mountain to me.”

A light. By Yavanna, she yearned to be that for him. If her Thorin needed laughter and love, she could shower him in both. She had them to spare in abundance. 

But. Thorin needed a _queen,_ confound it. Someone who could stand by his side with dignity. Someone nobles and foreign dignitaries would look upon and see grace and wisdom that would do Erebor’s king proud. He should have a female capable of aiding him with the weightier matters of a kingdom, not one who would be more likely to race through the halls in grubby gardening clothes with curls a mess, giggling like a child. 

Thorin kissed her again, but try as she might, she couldn’t return it. Her heart ached with the thought of losing him. Yet, wasn’t it selfish to cling to this dwarf when he could have someone…better? A lady more suited to his station and nobility. Surely with the stark exile over, there would be brighter lights to enter this amazing dwarf’s life. 

Likely from all over Arda. 

That put a frown on her face. A big one. Grasping females after _her_ Thorin? Oh, no. Her Took self wouldn’t stand for it. Not a one would care for him the way she would. 

Why, what if one dared set her eyes on not the wonderful dwarf himself but his _gold?_

“I would hide you away if I thought you’d allow it,” he said, his words a breath upon her face. “My treasure. _Thatrê.”_

Thorin stilled, realizing, she was sure, that she was no longer returning his kisses. Slowly, he drew back, his eyes intent. Buttercup placed one trembling hand over her mouth. By the Shire, all she wished was to love this dwarf and protect him from any who thought to draw near because of his mathoms rather than because of how precious he was himself. But… _But!_

“You would say me nay,” he accused, a hard yet wounded look entering his eyes. “I know you, Buttercup Baggins. With my memory restored, I know you well. I will not believe you if you say you do not love me. You love me, right enough. So much it humbles me.”

A new thought, and rigidity stole over him. His lips compressed, and that tick in his jaw made an appearance. “The dragon-sickness. You fear I will succumb again.”

Um. What? Did he really just accuse her of _fearing_ him? She smacked his chest with the back of one hand. _(Ow._ The confounded dwarf’s chest was as solid as Nori’s shin.) “You will no sooner fall to that again than Dwalin will plait flowers in his beard and dance in the fields like an elf. The _nerve_ , implying I’d run for fear of that. As if I’d walk away from the one I love over so little a thing.”

“Little?” He hovered between outrage and… Well, no. There went the glimpse of vulnerability. He was outraged and bristling with pride, through and through. 

“Little,” she sniffed, arms crossing before her chest. “I dragged you once from the Sickness, Thorin Oakenshield. Don’t you doubt I’d do it again, and next time, I won’t be so gentle.”

“I thought you said I wouldn’t succumb again?” he grumbled, his anger lessening.

She leaned forward, chin jutting out. “You won’t. We both know it, so I’m not sure why you even brought it up.”

Thorin eyed her, his head turning ever so slightly to the right and his chin dipping. What he read removed the rest of his anger. In a quiet yet proud voice, he said, “Few are the females who would bind themselves to a direct descendant of Durin after witnessing my grandsire and sire succumb to madness, much less after suffering from mine directly.” 

Well, when put that way, he had a point. _If_ all females were fopdoodles. And blind. _And deaf,_ her Tookish side threw in. Thorin’s deep voice, to her mind, was almost as appealing as watching him cook.

Almost.

Buttercup chewed on her bottom lip. This, she concluded, was a sore point for him. Could it be there had been maids who’d walked away from _Thorin_ because of his less-than-pristine heritage?

 _Humperdinks, every last one of them,_ she thought with a measure of pitying awe. (Who could resist her Thorin?) The pity faded when she considered that their actions, be they ever so politely tendered, had wounded him. Hurt Thorin, and Buttercup Baggins would make the wretch pay. 

“Whoever they were,” she told him lightly, “they are nincompoops. Dumber than a juicy rooster crowing outside a wolf’s den. You but point them out to me, and I promise, they’ll have green hair for the rest of their days.” 

She patted herself on the back to see all tension leave him. He’d rarely looked so startled. “You doubt me?” she asked with feigned affront. Buffing her nails on her tunic, she said, “You see before you an expert. I can easily make it happen. Just say the word.” She smiled angelically.

Once again, she found herself pinned in place by Thorin’s Kingly regard. He measured and weighed, his mind racing. One hand lifted to her cheek, the fingers spread to slide before and behind her ear, just barely grazing it and sending butterflies flitting happily through her veins. “Then what is this?” he asked. “Why do you look at me with such uncertainty?”

 _Deep breath._ She could do this. Except one masculine finger grazed the edge of her ear, this time deliberately, and the ability to hold a thought became an uncertain thing. “N-not fair,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. The hand retracted slowly. _Regretfully,_ her Took self pounced, thrilled to make that deduction. Thorin liked _ears!_

Oh, she was _so_ sunk. How could she resist Cooking Thorin when he kissed her back and _touched_ her _ears?_

_Buck up, Buttercup,_ her Baggins self scolded. This conversation had to happen, and by Yavanna, she would have it. 

Bother.

A big inhale. _Be the adult._ Another big inhale. When the after-tingles of Thorin’s scandalous touch faded, she sat tall. “Thorin, you are a _king.”_

“I know what I am,” he said. His eyes narrowed into slits. 

She glared and leaned forward until her nose was but an inch from his. “You need a queen.”

“I’ve chosen one.” Soft words. Serious as death. “The best there is to be found.”

Pin prickles raced across her skin, pebbling her arms. “I do adore you,” she whispered.

He slowly smiled. 

By the Shire, this hurt. She hated to disappoint him, and she never wanted to be without him. But. “Queen Buttercup? You must be joking.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “I fail to see your point.”

 _He would,_ a grumpy part of her mumbled. But then, Thorin had been born to be king. While she…had decidedly _not._

She tried again. “Thorin, be reasonable. You’re a king. Born to rule, and one so fit for the position, I am in awe at times. Me? I’m perilously close to being named a Disturber of the Peace in the Shire. I’m more likely to be racing through the hills with the fauntlings, returning home caked with mud, than I am to ever cut a genteel figure among the Shire’s finest matrons. I’m…” Blush, blush, blush. “… _hoydenish._ I am froward and…and…” She fumbled. “I’m just a— _Ouch!”_

One hand slapped protectively over her hear. What was…? “Nori!” How, by the Shire, did he keep sneaking up that way? And Thorin, the rat, smirked. Why, he’d seen the wretch coming! 

“Traitor,” she muttered.

“Prudent,” Thorin murmured in return. “When fighting a battle, only a fool overlooks advantages.”

A battle? Were they at war then? 

A glint flared to life in Thorin’s eyes, one that sent shivers through her. He waged a war, alright. For _her._ And this dwarf didn’t intend to lose. 

Only Nori’s presence kept her Took side from reacting in a totally inappropriate fashion. Thorin wanted her, and he was willing to fight for her. Inside, she melted into goo at the knowledge. 

_As if I wasn't already goo in his hands?_

No, she most certainly was not. _Goo_ was slimy and altogether disagreeable. _Pudding,_ she supplied. She was pudding in his hands. Sweet butterscotch pudding, a favorite.

“Begging your pardon,” the thief directed to Thorin. “But I’m thinking it’s time I had a chat with my namad.”

For the longest time, Thorin didn’t move. Then his lips were on Buttercup’s, hard and possessive and stealing the breath—and bones—right out of her. Just as fast, the kiss was done, and blue eyes burned into hers. 

His lips quirked. Thorin, she vowed, was getting way too good at this. Tossing her his own brand of an _I’m-not-done-with-you_ look, Thorin shoved his cooking implements a couple yards down the counter.

As if to prove the point, the confounded dwarf _started chopping vegetables._ Again! Buttercup’s eyes glazed— _Cooking Thorin,_ a part of her crooned, _my favorite of all Thorins_ —and she was half a wink from sidling along the counter towards her dwarf when Nori planted himself between them, the most unbecoming smirk on his face. 

Thorin, she distantly noted, had a death’s grip on his knife and the chopping had stopped. 

By Yavanna. Truly? Did Thorin Oakenshield only have to pick up a butcher knife and she became a shameless wanton? 

_Hus-sey,_ her Baggins side averred with a tsk and a sad shake of the head. 

“Seems our hobbit’s got a thing for males in the kitchens,” Nori tossed over his shoulder to their liege, his arms folded before his chest. 

She sank into the counter, making herself small. Where was Smaug when a hobbit needed him? “What?” she asked weakly, fiery heat flushing through her face to the tips of her ears. 

Nori’s infernally _knowing_ grin grew, and he winked at her.

That was it. Dori would just have to understand. His brother had to die. Fine, her brother had noticed that she found Thorin irresistible. She could live with that. But to mention it aloud? Why it was…it was… _rude!_

“Aye, that’s it indeed.” Nori twisted to face Thorin. “You’ll not be cooking for the two of you until you’re wed.” A pause. “Or unless you’re under Dori’s supervision.” Then Nori’s wicked grin turned her way. “I’m thinking keeping you away from Bombur might be a good idea, too.”

“Nori!” she whined, and the thief tweaked her on the nose. Thorin, the big galoot, suddenly adopted a hard expression she didn’t like. Blue eyes slid her way.

What was that—? _Oh._ Oh, for goodness sake. She glared at both males. “I am not going to lose control if Bombur cooks.” She crossed her own arms over her chest. “I’m a hobbit. The only thing we love more than our food are kitchens. Especially well-equipped ones.”

“Well-equipped. Did you hear that, Thorin, you’re—”

 _“Nori!”_ Her hand slapped over her brother’s grinning mouth while beyond him, Thorin smirked, the picture of one utterly confident in his own appeal. (Not, confound it, that his confidence was misplaced. Irritating dwarf.) 

All but burning of mortification where she sat, she managed, “Thorin is devastatingly handsome at the worst of times.” Oh, blush, blush, blush. She forced herself to plow onward valiantly. “Put him in a kitchen, and I deny any responsibility for my actions. I’m sure any female would have the same difficulty.” She sniffed disdainfully.

“Is that so?” Thorin purred—yes, _purred!_ Totally unfair!—and his lips quirked on one end. 

“Oh, you.” She picked up a stray and abandoned lump of potato and lobbed it at him. The bothersome dwarf caught it easily, making her melt even more. She slapped both hands over her face. “This proves my point, you know,” she said into her palms.

“What point?” Thorin asked. Nori, the traitor, snickered.

“I’m no queen,” she snapped, dropping hands to glare at the far-too-handsome-for-her-good dwarf. “A queen doesn’t drool—”

“This one will,” Thorin murmured. The cretin who used to be her brother nodded his agreement. 

“—over males—” she barreled on.

Thorin’s smirk vanished. “One male,” he corrected warningly.

“—or bounce around, or jump into a male’s arms—”

“One male’s,” Thorin again warned.

“She does have a lot of strange ideas,” Nori commented, plopping a piece of uncooked potato into his mouth. 

That almost derailed her—raw potato?—but she plowed on with a slight shudder. “—or garden, or putter in a kitchen—”

“A king does,” Thorin said, hefting his implements in demonstration. His ghost of a grin returned.

“Especially with this one as his queen,” Nori interjected.

To which Thorin’s grin widened. Widened! As if there was nothing improper or shocking over her lack of control where he was concerned.

“I’m not poised and dignified!” she finished dramatically, flopping onto her back there on the counter with arms splayed. 

“If you’re thinking most o’ us are, you’ve not been paying attention,” Nori snorted. 

Buttercup lightly kicked him with one foot. Her dratted brother captured the limb and studied it with curiosity. “Beards on your feet. Who heard of such a thing? Nay, you’re right,” he said sorrowfully. “The shame of it will do us in.”

Though she knew exactly what her tricksy brother was up to (Gollum, she decided, had coined the perfect term, there), she took the bait in a flash. “There is nothing wrong with my feet,” she growled, sitting up and yanking the limb free. Inwardly, she debated just grabbing her “evil” ring and having done with this scene. Surely running away was no more embarrassing than staying would be with her all but drooling over Thorin for the world’s amusement. 

“No?” Nori blinked, his expression one of exaggerated shock. Then, he rubbed his chin. “If’n it’s not the feet, I’m not seeing what the problem is. The hair, mayhap? It _is_ appallingly wild.”

A gasp, and Buttercup’s hands rushed to her hair. 

“There is nothing wrong with her hair,” Thorin cut in with narrowed eyes.

Wait. Thorin was on her side, now? Her hands dropped, and she frowned at the object of her affection suspiciously. Wasn’t he on Nori’s side a moment ago?

“Not the hair,” Nori informed Thorin seriously. 

Thorin continued with his self-appointed task. He added water to the pot and set it onto the stove whose warmth she’d delighted in. His attention next turned to adding small logs into the fire chamber. 

By Yavanna. She was reduced yet again to fanning herself. 

Nori, the rat, stepped between them. Again. “If it’s marriage you’re after,” he tossed to Thorin, “we need only grab Balin. Allow her to watch you cooking long enough, and she’ll do anything you ask.”

The white of Thorin’s teeth flashed, and his low chuckle reached her. 

“It’ll get the job done,” Nori said.

Job? Did he just call wooing her a job? 

“I want her free of these doubts, Nori.” Thorin’s tone brooked no argument. 

It silenced Nori. It didn’t, however, silence her. “Would you two be serious? Really? A hobbit is supposed to marry the king of Erebor?”

The two dwarves donned identically displeased faces. 

“It is entirely possible we wouldn’t be able to have children,” she said, her eyes helpless to do otherwise than drink in the exquisitely appealing sight of one Thorin Oakenshield as he left the stove and prowled towards her. 

“I have an heir,” came his voice, and for a moment, she struggled to latch onto the words.

Her dreamy, “Hmm?” planted an immediate gleam in his eyes. Then she shook herself. _Ninny!_ She reviewed his words. Gasped. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” she wailed. “What about Fíli?”

“Now you’ve done it,” Nori said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Fíli,” Thorin informed her as he moved Nori to one side and out of his way, “will be fine. His future is secure.”

“Then what about your people?” she countered. Did she need to clobber him over the head with some hard facts for him to see how ill suited she was? “Do you think they’ll be pleased their king selected a _hobbit_ over all the maids that—”

Thorin slowly retracted the hand from her lips. “They will recover,” Thorin rumbled, his eyes turning granite. “Those who endured this day with us will celebrate my wisdom in choosing one so valiant in heart and spirit. One who quite literally spilled her blood in defense of them, their king, and their kingdom.”

That silenced her. He made it sound so noble, as if she was some hero of lore. But she wasn’t. She’d been terrified. She’d cried and hidden.

Thorin placed both palms on the counter to either side of her thighs. “You seem to envision a glorious king and queen in all their splendor. If I were my grandsire, your words would hold some truth, but I am not Thror. I will never, by Mahal’s grace, become Thror. He indeed fit your description of ‘dignified’ though his madness robbed him of any ‘poise.’.”

His hands moved upwards to cradle her face. “If I’d wanted such a wife as my grandsire’s preference, no, _Thatrê._ You would not be her, if by ‘poised’ and ‘dignified’ you mean one of artifice and false words. You, Buttercup Baggins, are far removed from that ilk, and I will not cease to thank the Maker it is so.”

By the Shire, he was as serious as death. 

“You are something rarer and infinitely more valuable. You are honest, _Thatrê._ You wear your thoughts and emotions for all to see. No one who matters will expect you to be aught but you are. It is you putting demands on yourself that are not there.”

That…was probably true, she admitted. 

“Do you remember our words? Before my first death?”

“How could I ever forget them?” she said lowly, her hands seeking harbor in his beard once more. “You _died_ on me, Thorin.”

He pressed a kiss to one palm. “This is no storybook, and I am no hero. You know that better than most.” His fingers touched her throat. The tick of his jaw muscle returned. 

His gaze lifted. “I told you then that if more of us valued good cheer and simple pleasures, this world would be a merrier place. I meant every word. You have much to teach my people. As,” he stressed, “you taught their king.” 

Buttercup hesitated only one beat of the heart before she wrapped arms around him and clutched him to her. Thorin instantly returned the embrace, murmuring words close enough to her ear that she quivered—a fact that he must have realized for he backed away from the ear, his chest rumbling with amusement. 

“You, Thorin Oakenshield, could have any female on Arda,” she whispered. “I do not doubt you, but I cannot help but think you deserve better.”

When he stiffened, she refused to let him go. “I adore you,” she continued. “From the tick you always get in your cheek right before your temper escapes you to the selfless way you try to fix the troubles of the people you love.” A smile entered her voice. “Even those you don’t love but are saddled with by a meddlesome wizard when traveling across Eriador.”

A forlorn sigh escaped her. “You are stubborn and unmoving, so I know it makes no sense, but I can’t escape the feeling that I took advantage of you.”

That fast, he held her at arms length, an incredulous expression on his face. 

“I know!” she cried, waving off his certain objections. “I know. You are too confoundedly bullheaded for that to be even remotely true…”

A short nod, one moderately mollified. 

“…but I kept throwing myself at you without you having any idea…” Her words trickled off as his arms folded before his chest. It was not quite the Glare of Imminent Doom she received, but it had to be a kissing cousin. 

She’d have thought his responding, “I knew,” a jest except he sounded so serious. 

“You knew,” she said doubtfully. “You knew what?”

The dwarf smirked before returning to the stove to check the progress of his work. Then with hip against the stove’s edge and arms folded, he said, “From the day I taught you those Khuzdul words to repeat to me, I knew what you were about, Buttercup Baggins. If I’d wished to deter you, I could have at any point thereafter.”

He’d…known. He’d… _cheated._ She’d grouse about that (maybe) at another time. Right then, she wasn’t sure what to think. All that time, Thorin had known? 

Nori sighed theatrically and stomped in between them once more. Nori’s finger flicked Buttercup’s nose. “I’ve an idea to put this nonsense aside once and for all.”

“Nonsense,” she bristled.

Thorin’s head tilted, his face contained. “Go on.”

“You,” Nori said, facing Buttercup, “have said more’n once that you’re needing to return to the Shire to apologize to your brother. You’ve also said times aplenty that you intended to remain here. With us.”

Since he seemed to require an answer, she said softly, “I do.” Her gaze slid to Thorin. “This is my home. I would never wish to leave.”

Thorin slowly dipped his head. 

“Here is what I suggest.” To Thorin more than Buttercup, Nori said, “So long as she’s believing you’ll come to your senses and realize she’s _not_ such a grand thing…”

“I never said that,” Buttercup protested.

Nori ignored her. “…she’ll fret. Words won’t fix this. Actions will.”

“What do you have in mind?” Thorin asked, one hand stroking his beard. His gaze was focused, unmoving from her nadad. 

“I am here,” she said to the room since the males seemed to be ignoring her. 

“Dori and I will take her back to the Shire for a visit.” By his frown, Thorin didn’t care for the idea, and Buttercup wasn’t much thrilled with it, either. Nori played with his favorite dagger, spinning it by the hilt on one finger. “Gives her a chance to mend all with her brother and gather her things.” In a different tone, catching the hilt in one fist, he said, “She’s female. Doubtless she has possessions she’d like with her as she makes her home among us.”

Thorin grunted, conceding the point. 

Buttercup sputtered. “I’m _female_ so I have treasured things? Excuse me, but I’m fairly confident—”

Nori’s unencumbered hand clamped over her lips. The humperdink did not glance her way, so her glare returned void. 

“When we return, if’n yer still of a mind to court and wed my sister…”

“That will not change,” Thorin rumbled.

Nori didn’t bat an eye. “…then she agrees. You’d have been around our own lasses and had sufficient time to review all that has transpired with fresh eyes. You and I know you’ve no need of it, but Buttercup here is suffering under some hobbit delusion…”

“Delusion?” she growled.

Nori gave her a speaking glance. “…that only a space of separation will be solving.” His piece said, he arched an eyebrow challengingly at her.

Buttercup blinked at him. Blinked at Thorin. Nori had effectively yanked every barrier between herself and Thorin out of the way. By returning to the Shire, Thorin _would_ be free to truly consider all that had happened. He’d have time to review things dispassionately, to decide what was best for himself and his people without her sneaking up and kissing him daily, or ogling him in the kitchens, or…

Nori cuffed her gently. “You’ve done enough o’ that, namad,” he murmured for her ears only. “There are times you think too much.”

Thorin crossed the distance between them, eyebrows low. Shrewd eyes inspected her, and his lips twisted sourly. “I have little liking for this,” he said softly. “Yet I suspect Nori is correct. This, you require.”

She bit her lower lip. “I do,” she confessed. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you. I just…”

“Don’t trust you are enough,” he finished for her heavily. One finger traced down her cheek. “How you can doubt escapes me, but if this is what you need, it will be done. You will swear to me,” he said with sudden grimness. “Before you set foot from this mountain.”

“Swear?”

His forehead pressed to hers, and his big hands cradled her neck. “You will return to me.”

Her lips wobbled in a tremulous smile. As if even a hundred dragons could keep her away. “I swear.”


	20. Home

Tomorrow came.

And the next day. 

And the next.

At first, Buttercup held her breath. Deep inside, she feared that if she blinked, all would vanish. She would reawaken on Dale’s wall and fall into those blighted bushes. 

It goaded her into drastic action. She snuck around Erebor until she found the tools she needed, and then she returned to Dale…to hack the bushes to their roots. Nori alone caught her at it, and so it was Nori she pestered until he relented and yanked the plants’ roots up out of the ground. Those bushes? They would _never_ return to taunt another hobbit.

Yet, her fears never materialized. Each day, she awoke in her bedroom in the Ri brothers’ newly acquired quarters within the royal wing. Thorin, determined never to be like Thror, insisted the entire Company make their residence near him to keep him accountable should he ever again falter. To Buttercup, the very fact that he’d take such a precaution said he was out of danger, but she said not one word to deter him. She liked having the Company near at hand. The arrangement suited her quite well.

Thorin gifted her with a kitchen. Not just any kitchen—oh, no—but the very one in which he’d cooked her the vegetable soup. She’s squealed and bounced all over the room before throwing herself into Thorin’s arms and planting kisses all over his face. Nori had snickered. Ori had smiled softly. 

Dori, bless him, had taken his role as chaperon for his new sister to hilarious (her opinion) extremes (Thorin was less amused). Instead of finding any amusement in her effusive thanks for the kitchen, her too-proper nadad had needed but one glimpse of Buttercup when Thorin was in the kitchen with cooking utensil in hand, and he’d put his foot down quite firmly, prohibiting any such activities until she and the dwarf king were well and properly wed. Thorin was banned from her kitchen.

Buttercup had argued that cooking was a perfectly respectable pastime, but Nori and Ori had chimed in, landing on Dori’s side. That was that. No Cooking Thorin for Buttercup until she came to her senses and married their king. _(Party poopers.)_

The next day, all day, Buttercup had spent baking (and nibbling) in her new kitchen and found it cathartic. When she emerged with goodies enough for an impromptu feast, her heart felt much lighter. Tomorrow had come. Life resumed a more traditional normal, and an exciting adventure of undiscovered days awaited. 

Buttercup Baggins could not wait. But first, there was a trip to make.

OoOoOo

Buttercup Baggins was a dunderhead. A complete, noodles for brains, dyed in the wool idiot. It was the only explanation.

After Nori’s solution to her “issues” (her dwarves’ words, _not_ her own) had been debated and reluctantly agreed upon by the rest of the Company, it was unanimously decided by her overprotective dwarves that her trip west would be delayed until winter’s harshest fury had passed. Gandalf muttered and grumbled some, but in the end, he had chosen to remain behind and join them come early spring so long as the party rode instead of walking this time around. 

It had been on the tip of Buttercup’s tongue to point out that the Company had intended to ride the last time, but she bit her lips and remained silent. A delay meant more time with her dwarves and more time in _her kitchen_ (hurray!) before venturing out into the cold, cruel world.

Plus, it meant Buttercup got to spend Yule with her dwarves. With _Thorin._ With the king watching in bemusement, she’d hauled fragrant greenery into the common room the Company shared and decorated to her heart’s content. She dragged Bombur into _her_ kitchen (she did a jig each time she entered it, thrilled with the gift) and together, they baked up a storm, Buttercup singing Yule songs all the while. 

Dwalin, to her disbelief, joined them, though not to bake. Given how unimpressed he was with her and Bombur’s merriment, she wondered what brought him to them…until a chance encounter led to the discovery that Thorin had ordered him to it. Thorin was ensuring his hobbit was not tempted in any direction but his, and while a part of her bristled, she was too busy giggling and glowing to really mind. 

Thorin. Jealous of Bombur. It was a good thing Bofur never caught wind of it or Thorin would never live it down.

In the end, she and Bombur had a veritable, hobbit-worthy banquet for the Company as well as Dain and his dwarves on the first of Afteryule. Small gifts were exchanged and kegs opened. Buttercup even scrounged a sprig of mistletoe with help…which she dangled over Thorin a time or two when Dori was occupied elsewhere.

By the Shire, it had been a wondrous day. 

Those blissful winter days, however, had not been only fun and games (though those, too, she strong-armed her dwarves into enjoying). Erebor was a mess, and many days were filled with all of them rushing about on their own tasks in removing rubble, assessing damage, cataloging salvageable textiles and hauling them into a central location for later distribution. They labored hard, but by the Shire, Buttercup enjoyed it. Little by little, Erebor lost its tired and dusty facade. The dwarf kingdom began to shine.

So, yes, Buttercup was a lack wit. She could have stayed put, enjoyed courting with Thorin, and savored the sense of true belonging she found with the Ri brothers. (Not to mention accustoming herself to her new dwarven name: Khajimaith. “Little gift”, the dwarves now called her, much as Thorin was dubbed Oakenshield, and though she found it a mouthful, she couldn’t help but wiggle in the knowledge of being loved each time she heard it.)

Instead, she was now three whole months—by pony, mind, and at a good clip—away from Thorin. All because she (idiot that she was) had decided Nori’s plan was a Fine Thing. (Dumb, dumb, dumb.) Alright, yes, this was necessary (maybe) and would give Thorin the chance to really and truly think about what it was he wanted (as if he wasn’t old enough and intelligent enough to already have THAT figured out). 

Necessary or not remained to be seen, but Buttercup was Not Happy in the most profound Thorin of terms. 

Too late, long after they’d reached the Misty Mountains, it had also occurred to her that by vacating herself, she’d all but left an open path for any social-climbing, conniving miss with an eye on Erebor’s wealth and king. Thorin was able to defend himself—his glare was an effective tool, that she knew firsthand—but by the Shire, her grumbling Tookish side wanted to be there to defend her position herself.

_Only I have no position, do I,_ her Took side complained. No, _she_ had asked for _time_ instead of grabbing that dwarf and never letting him go. He was _hers_ , confound it. Wasn’t he? 

_Humperdink._ It was galling, but the name fit. She _was_ a humperdink. No, the _queen_ of all humperdinks. Her insecurities proved it. Her need to be sure, to give Thorin an out should he wish it, wrote it across the sky in bold red letters: HUMPERDINK.

So it was that when they arrived in Rivendell on the first of May, Buttercup viewed scenery that had once left her breathless and wondering with grumpy dissatisfaction. Elrond was a wonderful host, and the food here would be excellent, but by the Shire, there was no Thorin here. Not Kingly Thorin, not Determined Thorin, and certainly not Kitchen Thorin.

_Humperdink,_ her Took side again declared.

It was deflating to have her nose rubbed in just how true that was.

OoOoOo

**1 May TA 2942**

“Lord Elrond,” she greeted with sincere pleasure. _“Mae govannen.”_

With hand to his chest, the black-haired lord bowed gracefully, his gray eyes alight with warmth. _“Suilad,”_ he said in return. _“Mistress_ Baggins.” Gentle humor beamed down upon her.

Heat filled her cheeks, and she coughed into one fist. “Ahem. Yes. I’m… I’m sorry for that.”

Nori snorted softly from her left. Beyond him, her oldest nadad dipped his head politely. Bofur smiled his gamine smile, rocking on his feet. Amused as always, her friend, at some line of thought racing through his head. 

“You owe _me_ no apologies,” Elrond said in a kindly way, though the inflection on _me_ confused her.

At least it did until she heard an unexpected voice calling out from a distance. “Buttercup! Buttercup!”

“Bilbo?” She whirled around, and there, racing across one of Rivendell’s bridges and barreling towards her with a noticeable limp, was her big brother. “Bilbo!” Like a shot, she was off, flying down a short flight of stairs and sprinting along a dirt path.

They met in the middle of another bridge, and fell into each other’s arms, grips tight and bodies quivering with emotion. “Bilbo,” she managed. 

“You Tookish, Tookish girl,” her brother said in a thick voice. “I thought you’d perished!”

What? She clutched him tighter. 

They stayed that way, holding each other in a crushing embrace, for long minutes. Silent minutes, where Buttercup absorbed the knowledge that her brother had believed her dead, and more, he’d _left the Shire._

When they pulled apart, Bilbo wiped a tear from his face gruffly before saying, “Well, let me have a look at you. Are you hur…t?” His eyes widened, and she bit her lower lip. She knew what he was seeing, and it wasn’t the hobbit lass she’d been when they’d parted.

Instead of a naive and silly girl with curls spilling down her back in one of her many favored yellow dresses, Bilbo was confronted with an older and wiser Buttercup. One wearing a brown, split riding skirt Dori had fashioned for her embroidered with yellow flowers, a tunic the same yellow—those, Bilbo would accept easily. It was the small sword strapped to her hip, the bow and quiver upon her back (a gift from the Elvenking that her dwarves had grudgingly stopped griping about), and a wide leather belt at her waist from which her two daggers were affixed that held his attention. 

Slowly, Bilbo’s chin lifted, drawing his attention from her attire and accoutrements to her face. Worry lurked in eyes the same shade of brown as her own. Worry, and relief, and a dollop of hurt. 

Bilbo, she’d discovered during her own examination, had not survived his own adventure unscathed, either. A cast protected his right leg from knee to ankle, and though his smile was as bright as ever, there was a new knowledge—no, a _sobriety_ —to be found about him that had not been there before. Like Buttercup, her brother had seen things that could not be unseen, learned things that could not be unlearned. 

Her fault. 

“Bilbo,” she tried, only to halt when her voice emerged so broken. Buttercup closed her eyes tightly and forced her emotions under control as best she could. Then she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist, burying her head in his belly as she’d done when she’d been a faunt. “I am _so sorry._ I’m so sorry, Bilbo.”

Her brother’s arms wrapped around her, one to her shoulders and the other clasping her head to him. “I know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, too.”

Her head tilted upwards. “You? What do you have to apologize for?” Why, he was the innocent party here. 

His lips compressed yet trembled still. “I ran,” he said. “I _knew_ how all those dratted stories had affected you growing up. I know you, Buttercup Baggins. Our mother’s blood runs strong through your veins, more so than even I can claim, and we both know I’m hovering on the edges of respectability as it is. Oh, stand. Stand!” 

His hands grasped her upper arms and aided her to her feet. “You are my sister. Of course I forgive you.” He cleared his throat. “Though if you frighten me like this again, I shall not contain my wrath.” He added a short nod for emphasis. 

By Yavanna, she’d missed him. 

“Are you…” He cleared his throat a second time. “Are you…well? You’re as thin as a will-wand.”

“I’m well,” she agreed. “But look at you! What happened, Bilbo?”

The two made their slow way back through Rivendell towards the Last Homely House. Dori, Buttercup noticed, waited for them where they’d greeted Lord Elrond, but Nori and Bofur were nowhere to be seen. Likely, that was Dori’s doing, sparing Buttercup and Bilbo both from Bofur. The toymaker stubbornly maintained that he’d have a “talking to” with Bilbo, never mind that Buttercup was an adult. One with dwarf brothers. 

“Well,” he said, dredging one hand through his darker curls. “Soon as I discovered you gone, I quite panicked. I packed a bag in some haste…” He rolled his eyes with a sigh, and she understood that like herself, he’d little been properly supplied for his journey. “…and realized before Bree that I will ill-quipped for such an undertaking.”

They crossed the last bridge before Lord Elrond’s house. “You didn’t turn back,” she broached carefully, guilt once more gnawing on her insides. She’d had twelve dwarves and one wizard with her. Bilbo had been alone. “How were you injured?”

Bilbo shot her a sideways look. “Of course I didn’t turn back. Bagginses don’t let a little thing like fear keep them doing what needs doing.”

_Oh, Bilbo, if only you knew._

She grabbed him close again without warning. “I love you, Bilbo.”

OoOoOo

That night, Bilbo met the rest of Buttercup’s companions, and Buttercup snorted and snuffled behind one hand as her mild-mannered brother gave Gandalf the tongue-lashing of his life. In _public._ That spoke louder than words how wroth her brother was, and how frightened out of his wits he’d been.

Bilbo rose higher in her dwarves’ estimation in that moment. Bofur leaned over the dinner table they were to share and whispered, “Alright. We’ll be letting him of the hook. If’n he’s willing to dress down a wizard in your defense, that’s good enough for me.”

Nori had played with his dagger from her right side, the left seat vacant and waiting for Bilbo. “Aye. This lass is hard to keep tabs on at the best of times.” A mildly reproving glance came her way (to which she smiled back innocently). Nori tapped her nose. “We’re on to your tricks, now.”

_Her_ tricks? She stuck her tongue out. It was utterly juvenile and inappropriate, but it caused Bofur and Nori to both chuckle. Dori heaved a put-upon sigh. Buttercup reached across Nori to pat him on the hand. 

After the food had been eaten, she and Bilbo stole off alone (she didn’t doubt Nori lurked somewhere nearby) to exchange tales. From her brother, Buttercup learned Bilbo had traveled from Bree to Rivendell in the company of one of the strange Rangers who protected the Shire’s borders. The man had been as disreputable in appearance as all of them, or so Bilbo claimed, but he’d discovered in the Ranger a gentility he hadn’t expected. The man had been intelligent, well-spoken, and highly educated.

Bilbo had delighted in their conversations and found the trip to Rivendell overall pleasant.

He’d been over the moon once he set hairy foot in Lord Elrond’s library. Her brother, Buttercup suspected, would happily move into the library and spend the rest of his days there if given half a chance. She wondered if Elrond had any idea that he was a heartbeat away from having a permanent addition to his household. 

Bilbo’s injuries, she winced to find, were her fault as she’d feared. Indirectly, yes, but hers nonetheless. From Rivendell, Bilbo had set out with Lord Elrond’s sons, Elrohir and Elladan, as well as a small team of riders to try to chase down Buttercup and her Company. All had gone well until they’d reached the Misty Mountains. There, they’d discovered mountain passes in absolute chaos. Goblins were out in numbers Elladan professed they’d not seen in decades, and the small band had been forced to turn back with goblins chasing them to Rivendell’s very doorstep. 

It had been during the group’s mad race back to safety that Bilbo had tumbled from his mount. He’d broken his leg badly, and the goblins had been on him in a matter of seconds. Bilbo had fought them off with nothing more than sheer luck and a pocket knife until Elrohir had charged in and saved him. 

Bilbo had been in Rivendell ever since, waiting for his injuries to heal sufficiently so that he could return home. A bad infection followed by a nasty cold had delayed him, but if she’d been but another week or two later, Buttercup would have missed her brother.

If she’d reached home first, she shuddered to think of the terror she would have experienced. To not know where he was, or _how_ he was… 

_Rather like what I did to him._ She couldn’t believe in hindsight how very _selfish_ she’d been. Good heavens! What had she been thinking? 

The image of Thorin standing there in Bag End, all noble and handsome and proud, returned to her. The truth was that she hadn’t been thinking. She’d been falling. If returned to that same place and time, she couldn’t entirely promise she’d have done differently, but still, regret soured her stomach. 

Her actions had changed Bilbo’s life. They’d changed _Bilbo._

When it was her turn, she told Bilbo everything…and discovered he had no idea what she was talking about when discussing the endlessly repeating day that had been November the twenty-third. How, why, she decided not to question when even Lord Elrond professed ignorance of the matter. Buttercup supposed she should simply be thankful that if the rest of Arda had no idea anything had gone amiss, the Valar had permitted herself and her friends to retain their memories. 

It also made her wonder how often such snafus occurred. If those affected never remembered the events, why, there could have been hundreds— _thousands_ —of time hiccups in the past. It boggled the mind. 

The next morning arrived as so many _new_ and beautiful mornings since that fateful day. Buttercup, Bilbo, Gandalf, and the dwarves mounted up. Their pace would be slower for Bilbo’s healing leg, but it was time to return home.

For the first time in over a year, she’d face Lobelia. A wicked smile so much like Nori’s curved her lips. Buttercup Baggins couldn’t wait.

OoOoOo

**22 June TA 2942**

“Bilbo…” Buttercup twisted in her saddle, eyes upon a hobbit retreating down the lane. The portly fellow was not from Hobbiton, and she didn’t recognize him, but by the Shire, those were her mama’s silver hair clips in the blighter’s hands.

_I. Don’t. Think. So._

“Yes?” she heard her brother ask from her side. 

Nori’s head whipped around in a double-take, but he wasn’t quick enough. She kicked her sweet blond pony, Goldenrod, and charged. A heartbeat later, she hauled back on the reins…inches from the dastardly thief’s toes. 

The well-dressed fellow recoiled, clutching his prize to his chest with eyes wide. Just as fast, his round face flushed with the red of outrage. “What is the meaning of this? See here now, this is no way to conduct yourself. Why, you almost ran me down! If you cannot control that thing, I demand you dismount immediately.”

For once, Buttercup cared not one confounded whit that she was the center of attention or that the gossips would have a field day over her conduct. Those hair clips might not be crusted with jewels or be of the finest craftsmanship—Nori would likely cluck his tongue over them—but by _Durin,_ they were hers. “You wish me to dismount?” she said in a sickly sweet voice. “Very well.”

She slid from Goldenrod’s back. With chin low, Thorin-style, she planted herself before hobbit and drew Sting. Though she had no idea what her expression looked like, it had the male blanching and stumbling backwards. (Maybe, a part of her squealed, she _was_ picking up a thing or two from Thorin.)

The thief backed right into a grinning Bofur. “Going somewhere, lad?” the toymaker asked.

The hobbit gaped, whipping around to stare at Bofur, then back to Buttercup. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Hand over those hair clips,” Buttercup said in a growl. Her hand extended out, palm up. “And we will say no more about your theft.”

Bofur’s eyebrows climbed, and he pursed his lips, eyeing Buttercup’s victim with less sympathy. 

“Theft? You rob me in broad daylight, you floozy, and you dare accuse _me_ of theft?”

Floozy? Blink. Blink. Had she just been called— _Uh-oh._ She threw herself at her brother. Brother ** _s,_** she corrected, for Bilbo led the charge. Nori was but a step behind, murder on his face. She sheathed Sting in a hurry so as to prevent an accident and lifted both palms. 

“Did he just call you what I believe I heard him call you?” Bilbo asked in an outraged voice, jumping up and down to see around her.

“Aye, he did,” Nori offered, voice lazy but face hard. 

“Who’re you?” The pudgy hobbit eyed Bilbo up and down. Nori, he glanced at nervously. Sweat dotted the cretin’s brow, but he did not back down.

“I’m her brother,” Bilbo snapped. “And I take umbrage at your terminology, good sir.”

“Good?” Bofur said. To Buttercup, “Did he just call this burglar good?”

“It’s an expression,” Buttercup offered.

“Burglar? Now see here, wench—”

Nori reached past both Bilbo and Buttercup to grab the male by his collar. The two siblings scrambled out of the way as Nori yanked his victim upwards until the male’s toes _just_ grazed the ground. Drawing the hobbit close so that he could deliver his most baleful look, Nori said, “You dare call a lass belonging to the Ri line a floozy and a wench?”

“You should probably mention the rest,” Bofur lectured Nori helpfully. 

“Rest?” the hobbit thief managed in a high-pitched voice.

_Here we go._ Buttercup shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks heating. Her dwarves had been proud— _ecstatic,_ rather—to boldly proclaim to all and sundry that… 

Nori smirked. “It’s the future queen of the dwarf kingdom of Erebor you’re insulting. We dwarves, we don’t take kindly to that.”

Big eyes flew from Nori to Buttercup in panicked jerks. “But… But… I stole nothing!”

“Then how is it you have my mother’s hair clasps in your hands?” Buttercup demanded, hands on her hips.

The fellow all but shoved them at her. “Here. Take them! If I’d known they were stolen, why, I’d never have bought them at the auction.”

Bilbo’s head whipped to Buttercup. “Auction?” her brother mouthed.

Auction. Buttercup’s eyes slid towards where Bag End was perched just out of sight on a sensible and polite hill. _Not,_ she told the image of Thorin she held in her mind, _an unmannerly cliff._ The image she carried near to her heart smirked. _That is no hill,_ she could hear him say. _It’s a bump._

By Yavanna, she wished he was here to have that particular argument. She missed him. She _really_ missed him, more than she’d believed possible. 

Her focus returned to the hobbit. If this hobbit had purchased her mother’s hair clips at an auction… Her gaze and Bilbo’s returned to one another with dawning realization. “Lobelia,” they said in unison. 

Buttercup scrambled into Goldenrod’s saddle and hauled her brother up behind her. To Bofur, “Buy those back from this good hobbit, would you, Bofur?” To the hobbit Nori was releasing, “Terribly sorry. Misunderstanding. You know how it is.”

Without a backward glance, she kicked the pony into a full gallop. Hobbits yelped and raced from their path. 

Bilbo leaned over her shoulder. “You do realize our reputations will be tatters after this.”

_Harrumph._ She supposed since Bilbo would remain here, she should give it some thought. “So I shouldn’t tackle Lobelia to the ground?” she asked, slowing her mount. 

“Ta— _Most certainly_ you should not.” A pause. “However, I do give you permission to frighten the wits from her.”

Buttercup did a hip shimmy in the saddle. “Truly?”

“Really.”

So it was that Buttercup Baggins dismounted and positioned her pony right before Bag End’s picket fence, thereby blocking entry— _or exit,_ she smirked—from her home. “You keep the bad hobbits from leaving, sweet girl,” she said with a pat to the animal’s neck. Goldenrod nickered and nuzzled Buttercup’s hair. That, Buttercup took as agreement.

Then, with a thick missive bearing the King under the Mountain’s seal in one hand and Sting in the other, she strolled past then handful of hobbits lingering in her yard—within Bilbo’s garden, the wretches—and through Bag End’s open front door. The instant her foot crossed the threshold, she could hear the loud proceedings of an auction taking place within the living room to her right. 

Beside her, Bilbo peeked into the room, only to stiffen and face her. “Why, they built a _platform_ in _our_ living room.”

Oh, had they? Her eyes slitted as she closed the front door silently—no sense letting anyone get away, her Tookish self purred. Her sensible Baggins side concurred. She threw the latch, not that anyone in the noisy adjoining room heard it. “Grandmama’s carpeting?”

Bilbo took another peek. He gasped in outrage. “It’s gone! And the floors! They’re scratched up within an inch of their life! They’ve dozens of folding chairs lined up in our living room, and no one’s wiped his feet.”

Buttercup shook herself, her lips trying to tug upwards into a naughty, Ri-style grin. 

“Wha—What do you plan? Why are you laughing?” her brother demanded.

She flapped one hand at him. “Oh, don’t look at me like that or I’ll never be able to keep a straight face.” 

Bilbo’s face blanked. “Is that better, then?” he asked dryly.

“Imminently,” she assured. “I’ve spent enough time with the King under the Mountain,” she told Bilbo as she shook the tension from her body. “I should be able to mimic him enough to scare the pants off of everyone in there.” 

Her brother looked on in doubt.

Until Buttercup tried her own Glare of Imminent Doom. His jaw dropped.

With a last wink, Buttercup Baggins stalked like a queen into the other room, utterly disrupting the auction without word in two seconds flat. 

_Need to practice that,_ her Baggins self noted. _Thorin would have had absolute silence in half that time._ Then it sat back, bowl of roasted nuts in hand, to enjoy the show.

And show, there was. Lobelia screeched that her cousins were dead, that this…this… _trollop_ was not her beloved cousin, nor was Bilbo (who followed quietly) for that matter. Thieves, they were. Frauds! Someone call for the Bounders!

At which point, Buttercup had…ahem…played with Sting much as Nori would have done. _After_ handing the expensive bit of paper she carried into the auctioneer’s hands. “Proof of my identity,” she told him with Thorin-like dignity. 

Trembling fingers claimed the missive from her and unfolded it. “Why…” The officious-looking, brown haired male looked at Buttercup with horror, gulped, and reread Thorin’s letter. A small whimper escaped him, one Buttercup was certain every ear in room detected.

“What does it claim?” Lobelia snapped. “For I call it a lie. This is no more my dear cousin than—”

“Oh, leave off, Lobelia,” old Widow Proudfoot said, banging her cane against the floor from where she sat in the back row. “We all know Bilbo, and your wild Buttercup is just as wild as always.” She sniffed in disapproval.

Bilbo sputtered, but Buttercup inclined her head, clutching that Thorin-regality with both hands. “Thank you, Widow Proudfoot.” Then to the gathered hobbits. “I appreciate your patience as we go through receipts and return to each of you the money you spent. You may leave our possessions here on the auctioneer’s stand.”

“Why should we?” another voice asked. “If the two of you ran off without word, you asked to be declared dead. I say we keep our new possessions.”

“I-I wouldn’t recommend that,” the auctioneer offered. 

“Why is that?” a belligerent voice demanded.

The auctioneer lifted the missive. “Because this letter gives one Buttercup Baggins the ability to call upon any dwarf in the vicinity. If she finds herself in any need whatsoever, they are to drop what they are doing and aid her. It says here that their axes are hers.”

A small, “Why would dwarves bother themselves with a hobbit?”

The auctioneer’s dry response: “I assume it has something to do with the fact that she is to wed their king.”


	21. Yule in the Shire

The seasons turned. Summer’s heat gave way to fall’s fickle flashes of hot and cold. The leaves donned their autumn finery, and Buttercup…procrastinated. 

This, she suspected, would be one of the last times she’d have in the Shire, the last opportunity to spend time with Bilbo, and so she lingered, taking walks with her brother, accompanying him to market, and (with Dori after Bilbo sought his bed) sorting through her belongings and deciding what must be discarded and what she could hope to transport to Erebor…

…if Thorin had not done as she’d feared and realized how ill suited she was. It was a miserable fear, and it pestered her more with each day. Thorin was not inconstant, but the circumstances of their courtship (if one could call it that) were…unusual. Would she blame him if he recanted?

_Yes,_ both sides of her sniffled as she reached for another handkerchief. But she’d blame herself more. 

She missed Thorin. By his Mahal, she missed him. 

No, _all_ of them, really. Stoic Dwalin, quiet Ori. Merry Bombur and steadfast Bifur. She adored Bilbo—Yavanna knew that was true!—but the longer she delayed, somewhat fearful of what she’d find upon her return, the more it became apparent: she did not belong in the Shire. Her stunt at the auction had the unfortunate consequence that it had taught the entire population to tread softly around her, thereby destroying the last vestiges of friendship she’d maintained over the years. 

Well, all but a handful, but those friends had families of their own. They had no time or understanding for what had compelled Buttercup to leave her home and traipse across Eriador with a bunch of dwarves, much less return with three in tow. The idea of her wedding a dwarf was deemed scandalous, and she swiftly found herself a social pariah. 

Nori grumbled under his breath over the matter. Buttercup…didn’t. She found herself sad, most certainly, but not truly crushed as she would have expected. If anything, she felt freed. What the hobbits here thought of her no longer mattered—with the exception of Bilbo—for this was not home. Home consisted of a tall, snow-tipped mountain and stone halls. It was a slew of muscular, bearded dwarves with appalling table manners. 

Nori, Dori, and Bofur took her dawdling with rare patience. If she’d had to guess, she’d say the three of them knew what she was about—she could read it on their faces along with calculation and sympathy. The letters sent east by them continued, so she assumed they were keeping Thorin apprised. 

Buttercup found herself unable to write. She felt wretched over it, but what to say? What could she possibly write when she’d insisted on this separation to give Thorin the chance to see if he really wished her beside him? It seemed counterproductive and…and… _cheating_ to write, and by Yavanna, she wished there to be no doubt. Thorin would choose her without her pestering him, and that was that. 

Yes, the three dwarves understood, and when she wasn’t with Bilbo, she was with them, taking Nori to favorite pubs, dragging Bofur along to amaze the fauntlings with his clever toys (she wryly concluded that if it was Bofur she intended to wed, she’d be the most popular hobbit in the Shire, bar none), and retracing old paths through the hills around Hobbiton, collecting wildflowers and precious seeds. With Smaug gone, there was still much work to be done in Dale and Erebor, and seeds were absolutely imperative to fix the devastation outside the mountain.

The wind’s chill turned sharper. Blotmath arrived and passed in the blink of an eye. Soon, the Yule season was upon them. It had almost been one year since she’d left home. She could take it no longer. Despite the love she had for her brother, she was ready to go home. 

She was ready to discover Thorin’s decision. 

A nod. She’d inform Bilbo the very next morning.

OoOoOo

The decision made, her longing for Thorin took on monstrous proportions, keeping her from sleep that night. She felt a humperdink once again for taking so long to realize the truth: she’d never be happy if not at Thorin’s side. And by the Shire, if he had doubts, this was one hobbit willing to wage war for him.

Whether he chose her or not, that was up to him. Staying by his side regardless as wife or friend, that was up to her. 

Yes, it was time for Buttercup Baggins to hie herself home. Buttercup set ink and quill aside—she’d spent the night pouring out her heart to Thorin in a sappy, poorly constructed prose that would _never_ see the light of day— and wiggled upright from the position she’d been in most of the night: sprawled on her belly with elbows propping her up and legs bent at the knees and kicking lazily back and forth. 

Sitting up, she took a deep breath. As soon as she dressed for the day, she’d hunt down her brother. If she knew Bilbo, he’d be in the kitchen with tea already brewed and first breakfast well on the way to completion. 

A knock interrupted her musings. _Speak of the hobbit._ She slipped from her _deliciously_ comfortable bed (elves and dragons, she’d never take that luxury for granted ever again) and padded to the door. Cracking it open revealed a fully dressed Bilbo waiting outside with a wooden tray in his hands, one bearing their best pot and two mugs.

“What did I do to deserve this?” she asked, backing up. 

Bilbo offered her a half smile as he set the tray down on the foot of the bed. He lifted the pot and poured his infamous hot chocolate into both mugs. Passing her a mug, he said, “It is past time we had a talk.”

“Talk? Have we been avoiding one another?” she asked lightly, accepting the beverage.

Bilbo huffed, “That won’t work with me. A serious talk, and one past due.” 

_Hmm. True enough._ Buttercup blew on the steaming beverage, wiggling her toes in anticipation. Bilbo made the _best_ hot chocolate. She’d never quite managed to wheedle his secret out of him, but there was nothing that compared. Her brother, she hazarded to guess, could make a fortune if he’d half a mind to sell it. 

A sip and she hummed in the back of her throat it enjoyment. _Almost as delicious as kissing Thorin._

Almost. An imagine popped into her head: Cooking Thorin offering her a mug of this heady stuff. _Perhaps it’s a good thing Bilbo doesn’t share._ Just the thought of Thorin and Bilbo’s hot chocolate combined was enough to cause her to fan herself, much to her brother’s bemusement.

Then Bilbo adopted a crooked smile. “You’re thinking of your dwarf king,” he accused, the smile not fading one whit as he sipped from his own mug.

“What?”

“You are,” he said gleefully. Pointing at her with his mug, he said, “Don’t deny it. The blush on your ears betrays you.”

_Idiot ears._ Her traitorous lips curved smugly. “Guilty.”

Bilbo nodded, his mood shifting from teasing to a sad resignation. “Gandalf warned me in Rivendell that you would not stay long. As much as I wish he was wrong, sister, you are not happy here.”

Buttercup set her mug down on the tray and claimed her brother’s hand. “You are my family, Bilbo.”

“Yes,” he agreed lightly. “But not the only member anymore.” His hand slipped from hers and lifted. “No, don’t. I do not begrudge you this. It’s plain Dori and Nori adore having you in their lives, though I do think Nori is taking delight in stealing our spoons merely to see what I’ll do.”

How she loved this brother of hers. Was there anyone in the world so generous? “He’s teasing you,” she agreed. And if not, she and Dori would search the tricky dwarf before letting him depart Bag End. 

Bilbo nodded, then his head tilted to one side. “No matter how much I wish otherwise, you are not the same hobbit you were when you left Hobbiton, Buttercup, and watching you try to comport yourself as a normal hobbit is painful to watch.”

“But I am a normal hobbit,” she responded instantly.

He studied her from beneath lowered brows. “No, my dear, dear Buttercup, you are not.” Before she could take insult, he said, “What other hobbit would hack off her hair, don trousers and chase after a bunch of dwarves?”

“Well, I’m sure—”

“None,” he said. “What other hobbit would march into a mountain with nothing but an over-sized ‘letter opener’, as I’ve heard it referred to, and a magic ring in order to confront a fire-breathing dragon?”

“I, uh—”

“What hobbit,” he continued more gently, “would dare to love a dwarf king, much less profess it to him daily?”

He made her sound so bold! “I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Buttercup frowned. “No, I didn’t. I took pains to—”

“Kiss him daily,” Bilbo said dryly. “A terribly forward declaration that you, sister, continued to make even after it became clear kissing was not the only way to pull your Thorin from his madness.”

Buttercup yanked the sleep cap off her head, releasing her curls to fall about her shoulders, and slapped him with it. “I told you, I didn’t expect him to remember.”

“Oh, I think you did,” Bilbo said. When she glared at him, he lifted one eyebrow. “Deep down, I think you knew the day would have to end at some point. You kept up your clandestine activity…” Here, he smirked. “…so that when it did end, odds were he would be left with the memory of at least one kiss. He’d know the truth. A rather roundabout way of doing things, but rather like you, you must admit.”

Silence clanged like a gong. 

“You are no ordinary hobbit,” Bilbo continued. He laughed when she slumped to a seat on the bed, shoulders rounded and cap dangling from one hand. Her brother stepped closer and fingered curls from her face. “No, you, my dear sister are quite extraordinary, and I am proud indeed to call you family.”

She peeked upwards. “Even if the neighbors call us the Mad Bagginses?”

“Even so,” he agreed. “You must return to Erebor, Buttercup. I cannot stand to see you moping about so.”

“Moping!” She most certainly did _not_ mope. Tragically and heroically pine, perhaps. Moping was…sulky. Definitely not attractive.

“Yes, it is time you return to Erebor, dear sister. _After_ Yule,” he added, ignoring her objection. “I’d like one more time to celebrate it with my only sibling.”

Her lips tugged upwards. “I’d like that as well.”

“Then it’s settled,” he said. Reaching across the bed, he retrieved both mugs of cocoa. Then sitting beside her, the siblings drank quietly. _Well, mostly quietly._ Buttercup could not contain her small hum.

“Shall we attend the party at the end of Foreyule?” His shoulder bumped hers. “It might be the last time you celebrate at the Party Tree for some time.” Bilbo paused, plainly having more to say. “Say it won’t be the last time,” he said in a hush, his attention on his mug.

Her head whirled around. “It better not be.”

Bilbo smiled sadly. “A queen cannot pick up and go on a whim.”

Buttercup kissed her brother on the cheek. “Thorin is an exceptional dwarf,” she said firmly. “He’ll find a way if I but ask, I’m sure of it.” Then with a cheeky grin, “Perhaps in the future, I can bring him with me. Won’t that put Lobelia’s girdle into knots?” By the Shire, she’d pay good money to see that encounter. Snickering, she finished her chocolate. 

“There’s one more thing.” At Bilbo’s serious tone, she quickly turned to him. His expression was as lacking in mirth as his words. “The ring, Buttercup.” His hand clamped around hers when she instantly stiffened. “You heard that wizard. He said until he knew more, it was best the ring remain in the Shire with me.”

Confounded wizard. Buttercup struggled within herself. Yes, she knew it was potentially evil, but it had been so _handy._ It was hers. She’d found it and…

“Buttercup.”

Her eyes met Bilbo’s and found them steady and stern.

“Is it really so difficult to give up?” he asked lightly, though the slight narrowing of his eyes told a different tale. 

“It…is?” She rubbed palms across her thighs, chafing them through her nightgown. “It permitted me to save them, Bilbo.”

“And?”

A wry glance. Bilbo was an observant one. A side thought: he’d have to be to catch Nori filching things. “It’s difficult.” She stood, crossed the room to the small bowl upon her dresser where she kept her few pieces of jewelry. She fingered the ring, watching it and hearing it jangle against the few bracelets and pendants sharing space with it. 

“Buttercup?”

She blinked. When had Bilbo joined her?

“Let it go,” he said. Her a beat of the heart, anger surged through her veins. Terrible anger. But her brother touched her hand. “Your dwarves are more important.”

_Thorin._ The anger puddled away, leaving her vaguely confused. She handed the ring to Bilbo, and he quickly put it in his pocket, much as she used to do. 

He patted her cheek. “Now, then,” he said in a lighter voice. “This place would be happier for some decorations, don’t you think?”

OoOoOo

Foreyule arrived in a rush. Where before it was as if she had ample time to do all she wished, Buttercup found herself scrambling from one end of Bag End to the other, determined to make this the best Yule ever for her brother.

There were wreaths to be made, garlands to hang, and spiced cookies to bake in large quantities. (Larger than expected with Dori developing a unexpected fondness for them. Forget Nori. Dori was an _excellent_ cookie-snatcher. He’d smile that genteel smile, and when she turned back around, why, a dozen cookies were _poof!_ missing.) 

Nori, Dori, and Bofur, bless them, caught Yule fever with the Bagginses. Buttercup had no idea what Bofur worked on, but she’d spied him whittling away secretively a time or two, his back turned and project hidden from sight. _Or project **s**_ , she corrected herself with a soft chortle. Knowing Bofur, he could very well be making toys enough for all of Hobbiton’s faunts. 

Nori disappeared a time or two and refused to reveal where it was he’d gone. When asked, he tweaked her nose and changed the subject, the underlying excitement thrumming through him enough to tell Buttercup her nadad was up to Something. And Dori, she suspected, not only knew what the thief was up to, he was aiding him—she’d _never_ seen Dori smile so much.

As he stole still more spiced cookies.

Oh, but it was a blessed time. There were songs and music—Dori and Nori played their flutes while Bofur played his clarinet—and good food and plenty of cheer. 

The only thing it needed, she thought in the night watches when her heart turned eastward, was Thorin. _Soon._ She, Dori, Nori, and Bofur would depart with a small wagon of belongings early in Afteryule. Though the Misty Mountains would be impassible until the snows melted back, Dori figured that they would reach Rivendell near late February. With a spot of luck, early March would see the way over the mountain range clear. 

April, she thought. Come April, by the Shire, she would be back home. 

Would Thorin still be waiting for her?

OoOoOo

Buttercup’s eyes flew open. “It’s _Yule!”_ She squealed like a little girl, legs kicking in excitement beneath her sheets. So much to do! Why, First Breakfast must be extra special this day with Bilbo’s favorite potato hash with bacon _(blecht!)_ and onions, Dori’s favorite muffins (raisin spice), Nori’s beloved lemon tea cakes with icing, and Bofur’s rum and pecan pancakes.

She bounced out of bed, threw on her Official Kitchen Business attire—a sturdy green dress with years of stains to testify to its fearless approach, matching hair snood with Yule ornaments dangling from its netting, and (the highlight of the ensemble) a leather belt from which were suspended her special Yule cooking utensils. Buttercup inspected herself in the mirror and nodded. _Ready to cook._ One fist punched the air. 

With a twirl of skirts, she headed out of the bedroom. When she passed Nori in the hallway, her nadad’s jaw dropped—envy, she was sure—so she patted his cheek and continued onward, her lips quirking at the laughter raining down from behind. 

First Breakfast was a smashing success. Then while she and Nori cleaned up her mess, Nori teasing her for her outfit the entire time (she still maintained it was poorly hidden envy), Bilbo whipped up Second Breakfast. More drinking and eating followed, and they moved on to the traditional crafting of the snowfamily, one rotund sentinel for each person…or so tradition dictated.

Instead, it turned into an hours-long task since Buttercup’s dwarves, led by Bofur, insisted if they were constructing caricatures of themselves, they’d by Mahal do it _right._ Banished from consideration were the humble snowmen of yore. Bag End wound up with a diminutive Erebor complete with intricate-looking gates of ice, ramparts full of familiar but absent faces—she laughed until her belly ached at the sight of an icy Bombur with arms full of pies—and at the base, life-like Bagginses along with three proud snow-dwarves. 

One of which wore a floppy, winged hat.

Buttercup had rarely laughed so hard in her life. Long before the project was finished, faunts and tweens from all around gathered to enjoy the sight. There was nothing for it but for Buttercup and Bilbo to hand out cups of Bilbo’s hot cocoa and Buttercup’s cookies and tell a sanitized version of the dwarves’ quest to reclaim Erebor, much to the children’s delight.

“We’ll never be respectable again,” Bilbo murmured with a small smile.

“No, I think not,” Buttercup agreed. Then bumping his shoulder with hers, she said, “But you’ll always be the most popular hobbit in town to the little ones.”

To which Bilbo snorted. “Only if your toymaker is excluded from the competition.”

The crowd dispersed for luncheon, after which the Baggins household cleaned up and donned their most festive attire. 

It was time to head to the Party Tree.

OoOoOo

“Mister Bofur!”

Childish screams erupted from all corners of the snow-cleared grounds surrounding the Party Tree. Bofur, Buttercup thought as she giggled, had singlehandedly won himself the eternal devotion of Hobbiton this day. As the Baggins party stepped onto the sun-lit field, children from all directions converged on the toymaker, many of them jumping up and down with eyes locked upon the sack of toys Bofur carried.

Bofur, she thought, should be named an ambassador. Send him off to any kingdom, and within a generation, Erebor would have a large population of adults generously inclined towards dwarves. _Erebor’s secret weapon,_ she giggled into one gloved hand. 

“That’s bribery, you know,” Nori murmured from her side. Her middle nadad cut a handsome figure, Buttercup thought, as her gaze lifted to him. Dressed in velvets and wools in silvers and greens, his hair looked all the redder, and his elaborate hairdo and braids all the more elegant. 

Buttercup twitched her blue velvet skirts, a gift from Dori for this very occasion. Though he said nothing, it had not escaped her attention that her dwarves had dressed her in Erebor’s colors: Durin blue and mithril silver. Why, Nori had even procured (did she want to know?) a delicate headpiece that draped silver swags of fine chains across her forehead, each swag separated from its neighbor by a blue sapphire. 

The extravagance hinted of its origins (Erebor), and she wondered if Thorin knew it was missing. Thorin being Thorin, she imagined he’d be tickled to know where it had wound up. Exasperated, too, probably. 

Her gaze swept the clearing. This year, Hobbiton had outdone itself. The grounds were lit and warmed by carefully tended fires evenly spaced around its borders with one more centrally placed bonfire dominating the southern end. Right in the middle sat the leafless tree, its barren branches adorned with hundreds of glittering ornaments in glass, wood, lace, and nuts, one for every resident of the surrounding towns. 

Buttercup’s own creation hid somewhere in their midst. This year, she’d plaited a wreath, the symbol of hearth and home in the Shire. But this wreath had been constructed of golden hair (Goldenrod’s) a shade lighter than her own—Dori and Nori both had reacted with horror when she’d begun to lift scissors to her own hair, ergo the alternative. _(Sigh.)_ She’d painstakingly adorned it with dried buttercups and ribbon as close to Durin blue as she could locate. It was not exceptional in its artistry, but to Buttercup, it was perfect. The wealth of meaning displayed on that small wreath filled her heart with warmth and gratitude. 

Also upon the tree, beneath one sturdy bough, dangled a sizable sprig of mistletoe, its location obvious so that every married or courting couple could readily find themselves beneath it…and those wishing to _avoid_ the pesky thing had little chance of accidentally finding themselves its victims. At least (she smirked) not without help. 

“It’s called generosity and good cheer,” she murmured to her nadad. Her hip bumped his. “You didn’t mind so much last year.”

Nori tugged on his collar. “Last year, you didn’t make us all dress like peacocks,” he groused.

Dori gasped in outrage. “Why, after all the effort I spent,” he grumbled. “You could at least pretend to be appreciative.”

Buttercup took that as her cue to vacate the area. With her own basket full of contributions to the feast that would begin at sunset on one arm, she hurried to catch up to Bilbo, who was making his way to the Party Tree, his head tilted back and smile on his lips. Wrapping her free arm around his, she copied him, staring up at the colorful ornaments. “Did you find ours?” she asked.

“In all this? I’m good, but not quite that keen of eye,” Bilbo said. “I’d imagine our ornaments will be all but impossible to find.”

She snickered and conceded he was likely right. It was a game all participated in, and the ornaments crafted by the children dominated the most visible spots on the tree to give the youngsters the advantage. He (or she) who found his ornament first went home with one of Maple Overhill’s famous pecan pies. By unspoken agreement, the adults pretended helplessness, leaving the spoils to one (usually) tween each year, and she imagined this year would be no different. 

But by the Shire, the thought of Maple’s pie was almost enticement enough to drive a soul to cheating. There was only so much temptation a hobbit could take. Given Buttercup would be leaving the Shire soon, she wondered what her chances were of prying the prized recipe from Maple. Her eyes narrowed, searching out the bubbly, brown haired miss. 

“Whatever it is you are thinking, I’d prefer you not,” Bilbo said, aiding her in depositing her treats upon the huge and already groaning table positioned along the Party Tree’s north side. 

“Me?” She batted innocent eyelashes at him before returning to her task: setting out the brave cookie survivors from Dori’s frequent raids on the kitchen. She hid a couple of the spiced disks among other treats, hoping at least a few could find their end in a belly other than her nadad’s. 

“You,” he said, unmoved. “I’m a most respectable hobbit,” he said with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “With a _most_ respectable sister.” He laid out the dozen tea loafs of brown bread and carrot cake.

“Oh, _most_ certainly true,” she agreed. Then tapping one cheek, eyes skyward, _“Mostly_ true,” she corrected, only to laugh as his hip threatened to topple her. 

“Will you join the Ladies’ Dance this year?” Bilbo asked curiously, a measure of calculation on his face that she did not understand. 

Was this some trick? “Of course. Should I be concerned? You aren’t planning on tripping me, are you?” Her lips lifted in a lopsided smile. 

“Of course not.” Bilbo swatted her arm. Then rocking upon his heels, thumbs tucked into his pockets, he said, “Good. Yes, this is very…good.” 

“That’s two goods in one sentence. You, dear brother, are up to something.”

Wide eyes blinked over at her. “What a thing to accuse your own brother of.”

Huh. Yes, he was most definitely up to something, but it didn’t look like he was in any hurry to spill the beans. “Alright, keep your secrets. But you are acting mighty tricksy.”

“Tricksy?” he burst, laughing. “That is a mangling of the language. Where in Middle Earth did you acquire that gem?”

“Gollum,” she answered, her smile fading. 

Bilbo claimed her empty basket and stowed it beneath the table. Then wrapping one arm around hers, he said, “That’s enough of that. This is a day for joy and celebration. So lets, dear sister, do it in true Took style.”

“But we’re _respectable_ hobbits,” she reminded him impishly.

“With a touch of the Took,” he reminded her with a sniff. “We do have that side of the family’s reputation to maintain as well.”

Buttercup bounced on the balls of her feet. What kind of trouble could they get into? 

A finger pointed at her nose. “In moderation.”

“Oh, of course.” Then softer, “You’ll join in, then? Really?”

“I’m well and truly ensconced in the ‘eccentric’ category now, I’m afraid.” His eyes danced and his lips shook with mirth for all his mock sorrow. “If eccentric, I am fated to be,” he sighed, “I shall endeavor to be the _most_ eccentric hobbit in the Shire.”

Matching grins bloomed on their faces. In unison, the two Bagginses were off. 

It started tamely enough. They were Bagginses, after all. Drawing upon an old expertise from their tween years, they snuck about like well-dressed ghosts. A diversion here, a misdirection there, and the dreaded mistletoe popped up in random locations, snaring itself a number of victims. Even, the two recoiled upon sighting, Lobelia and her husband.

“Is that supposed to be a kiss?” Buttercup asked her brother in an undertone, her eyes wide. Why, if _that_ was Otho’s idea of a kiss, when it was his own _wife_ … “No wonder she’s a sourpuss,” she said, discovering a new sympathy for her cousin. “Why, Thorin and I weren’t even married, and we were much more…” A cough. A blush.

“Yes?” Her brother’s arched eyebrow dared her to continue.

Instead, she grabbed his arm. It was past time to move the mistletoe again. 

Yes. 

Past time.

From there, they spiked the adults’ beverages, one cup at a time…while sampling the till. (Couldn’t be spreading inferior spirits about, now, could they? _Good heavens, no,_ her Took self cried.) Come to think of it, Buttercup wasn’t sure about Bilbo sipping much of anything. But she, by the Shire, enjoyed a goodly dose of the cider and eggnog, neither of which had been found among the dwarves. 

Later, she would blame the eggnog. Yes, it was the eggnog’s fault that a cream puff ended up in her hand…and her hand ended up in Bilbo’s face. When her brother had wiped smears enough from his eyes to restore his vision, a cupcake squashed itself on the crown of her head. She didn’t witness him in action, but logic dictated it most certainly had been he. 

Taunting glare met taunting glare. Eyes narrowed in unison.

Ignoring the handful of scandalized faces turned their way, the two calmly and methodically instigated _the_ most massivest (Buttercup was certain) food fight ever, snorting and laughing as if they were tweens. Bofur was the first to join in, scooping up a cherry tart and lobbing it square in Bilbo’s face. All the children cackled with glee when Bilbo scraped red goo from his chin and nibbled on the flaky bit of crust that had glued itself to his cheek. 

“Really, this is most excellent,” he said. “My compliments to the cook.” Then with an arched brow, her brother asked the children, “Well, what are you waiting for? Why, in my day…”

The rest was lost beneath a chorus of young hobbit battle cries—the best kind, she was sure. Buttercup exchanged another glance with her brother, her throat tight. He winked and lobbed the remnants of the cherry tart her way. The sugary war between them resumed.

In the end, the Bagginses managed not only to drag Hobbiton’s youth and one dwarf into the culinary war but the faunts and many of their parents as well. There was much squealing and laughter in the ensuing battle, and by Yavanna, Buttercup had rarely had so much fun. Nor, she hazarded to guess, had most of the participants.

That is until the oddest yelp rose above the fray, one followed by a chorus of gasps…and then a profound and spreading silence. Buttercup had been in the midst of lobbing volleys back and forth with a cackling Widow Proudfoot—the matron’s gray curls were plastered with fruit fillings—when the two of them realized in tandem that something was amiss. By unspoken consent, they left off their private war to glance in the direction of the disturbance.

Buttercup anticipated a heated exchange with Lobelia likely in the making. Or perhaps the Thane himself finding cause to end the food frolicking before more of the feast designated for later was imperiled. 

She couldn’t have been more wrong. With jaw dangling, she thought, _Oh my._

The Baggins-instigated food war had netted another victim.

Thorin.


	22. Formalities

Thorin lifted one hand to slowly remove a glob of blueberry tart from his cheek, that tick in his jaw present and twitching like mad. Inches added themselves to his height as he straightened, his face darkening ominously. 

“Oh…” slipped past her lips, the syllable packed with joyous wonder—Thorin was _here!_ —mixed with tender amusement—he truly looked adorable though she doubted he appreciated his plight—and a boundless yearning the dried her mouth until a desert was less parched.

Thorin. Wearing blueberry jam. Oh, lands. This was better than Kitchen Thorin! She fanned herself. 

A part of her thought she should have more pride than to fawn at him this way, but…but… _Thorin._ Wearing _blueberry._ She didn’t care how grumpy he looked. He was…he was… _Yummy,_ she sighed. Irresistible to a female hobb—

_Wait half a minute._ A narrow-eyed glare swept the field. A grunt. Good, no other had been ensnared by Thorin’s magnetic appeal. She nodded in satisfaction. 

Her attention returned to Thorin. _Sigh._ Had ever a male ever looked so dashing? So brawny and well-built? 

The blueberry smear teased her, clear as day despite the distance between them. Why, in its wake, the tart had left crumbs behind. Luscious, buttery _crumbs_ that affixed to his beard. Was it wrong to wish nothing so much as to lick the dwarf? _My dwarf,_ she thought. _Mine, mine, mine._

“Uh, Dori?” she heard her brother broach, his tone a bit louder than necessary.

“Yes, Master Baggins? What is…? Oh, no. No, no, no.” Her fussy brother must have charged—she heard heavy footsteps pounding her way—but Buttercup was faster. In a blink, she stood before Thorin. 

“You’re here,” she whispered. And he was. Here, not in Erebor. Not months and months out of reach. 

And _glazed._ (Whimper.) Like the finest of pastries. 

Beyond him, Dwalin’s eyebrows rose high on his head, probably because of the mess she was. One did not engage in a food fight with Bilbo without taking considerable damage to one’s clothes, and a part of her tried to blush. A food fight? Was she an adult or a tween?

But… _Thorin._ Wearing blueberry yumminess on his face. 

She fanned herself again. “You look…” _Mouth-watering. Delicious. **Scrumptious.**_ “…well.” _Doh!_ It emerged from her lips like an invitation. _Double doh!_ Buttercup would have sought refuge behind her fingers if she hadn’t been otherwise occupied drinking in the sight before her.

_Thorin in blueberries,_ she cooed. 

The object of her adoration had been about to stalk past her with eyes scorching the landscape, but at her slip, he froze. His head whipped about, and his gaze adopted such heat it sizzled her toe hairs. “As soon as I am finished here, _Thatrê,_ I will set about proving to you how missed you have been.” 

Okay. Yes, that sounded good to her. 

A glob of blueberry dropped out of his beard, and she moaned. It was no good on the ground! _Stay put,_ she begged the rest of it. 

“But first, I have a hobbit to destroy.”

What? Her culinary fantasies evaporated. Surely he hadn’t said…

Oh, but he had. Thorin marched past, one hand on Orcrist’s hilt and pure murder on his face. Blink. Blink. What was this about? She turned to Dwalin. Why, he looked in full agreement with his liege! 

“Dwalin?” she asked.

He spared her a short glance. “It is our way,” he said shortly. “You’re ours. Erebor will not relinquish you.”

Okay. Yes. That was good. Kind of? “Who is he hunting?” If it was Bilbo in some archaic courtship rite, blueberry-dipped or not, she was going to have some words for her dwarf.

Dwalin shot her the queerest look. “The hobbit who thought to woo you while Thorin was absent.” All said reasonably. Incredulously, as if she should know, of course, what he was talking about. 

Behind her, Thorin’s voice called out at its most powerful. “Let the male who thinks to challenge my claim for one Buttercup Baggins step forth and face me.”

_Whoosh._ Her head whipped around so fast she came perilously close to injuring herself. Then back to Dwalin. “What male?” she whispered.

“What do you mean, what male? _The_ male. The one we near foundered our ponies getting here by Yule so the scoundrel wouldn’t have a chance to jockey you under that thrice-accursed mistletoe.” He bent down, crooked nose inches from hers and bushy eyebrows low. After studying her face for a moment, he grunted and nodded smugly. “Good. The others were successful in keeping the creature from reaching ya.”

The what? A blink. _What?_

She whirled back around. Hobbits all around had backed away from Thorin, and understandably so. By the Shire, he was magnificent.

_And scary,_ her Baggins self felt compelled to mention. Though he didn’t frighten her—she was admittedly too besotted with the dwarf king to pay much mind to his anger—he’d never been so intimidating. 

Her head tilted to one side. Where would Thorin get the idea that there was a…? _Oh, Nori, tell me you didn’t._

No, no, she was being ridiculous. Nori would _never…_

Her denial slammed into a wall of memory. Letters sent to Thorin. A lot of them. The calculation with which Nori would watch when she pined for Thorin. Nori had not once badgered her to come to her senses and _by Mahal_ return home. 

Nori. Who was no longer to be found anywhere within the festival grounds. 

Tell Thorin?

She’d yet to decide when Thorin strutted back, conquering hero in all his glory (giggle). He’d single-handedly cowed the entire populace of Hobbiton. If there had been a hobbit stupid enough to set eyes on Buttercup ( _more likely Bag End, if he even exists,_ she candidly admitted), by now he had most certainly soiled himself. 

Buttercup clasped hands before her and beamed up at her proud warrior, but instead of a smile or a word of greeting, Thorin latched onto her wrist and pulled her deeper into the festival grounds, his eyes locked on something, but she wasn’t sure what. 

Until he reached that mistletoe. 

Quick as a serpent’s strike, she was yanked off her feet and into his arms. Lips slanted down onto hers in a kiss of utter possession. 

_Oh my._

That decided it. This hobbit wasn’t going to say a peep. If this was the end result of Nori’s plotting, she’d keep silent about her suspicions. 

Forever.

OoOoOo

When the kiss at last drew to a close, she sagged, arms looped around Thorin’s neck, a dopey smile on her face, and lips tingling happily. They had been sadly neglected but were in a decidedly forgiving mood since the oversight had been remedied.

Thorin held her tight. The tick returned. “Did any other catch you beneath the mistletoe?”

A wild shake of the head in the negative drained him of ire. Lines of strain upon his face—a face, she suddenly realized, betraying a wealth of exhaustion—diminished. A tiny smile appeared, and he fingered a piece of cake from her curls. “You are covered in icing.”

“I am,” she agreed with a gamine grin. It drew another smile from him. 

Her smile abruptly wobbled, and a wash of tears threatened to rob her of vision. “Thorin.” Her arms tightened around his neck, and she hugged him as hard as she could, her chin on his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here.” With a watery laugh. “We’re both a mess.” 

Pulling back, she tilted her head back so that she could look at his face. “You’re here,” she repeated breathlessly with a tremulous smile. “You’re really and truly here.”

“I am.” 

Staring into his eyes, her heart clanging with joyous relief, she said, “I have missed you, Thorin Oakenshield, more than words can express.” Her face crumpled. “So much.”

One of his hands came to the base of her neck, the other remained pinning her in place. “Almost a year,” he said roughly. “A visit, _Thatrê._ You were to visit, not take an extended vacation.” A pause. “Not leave us.”

Her head jerked. “I would never leave you.”

“Too long,” he said. Then without a hint of humor, he said, “It was high time I fetched my bride. Erebor is dark, _Thatrê,_ when devoid of your light and laughter.”

A tear escaped down her cheek, and she blinked back more of them. By Yavanna. How could any female resist when he said such things? “I love you, Thorin. So much it hurts when we are apart.” 

She hugged him again, cheek to his upper arm. It was only then that she realized the retinue Thorin had traveled with. It was an entourage fit for a king, the dwarves bristling with armor and weapons. _To protect him,_ she realized, and her hold on her love turned protective as a chill wormed its way into her belly. Just how dangerous had it been for him to leave the mountain?

She straightened. “If you endangered yourself, Thorin, by the Shire, I will—”

A hard kiss, there and gone, silenced her objections. 

_Hmm._ If that would be his new method of silencing her, she’d have to make more objections later. She did have a severe kiss deficiency to make up for. But for now, she contented herself with the obvious. “You left your kingdom and came all this way…for me.”

“I did.” He studied her, his face adopting grim lines. “Is this done? Has time enough passed to allay your fears? Are you yet convinced that I’ll not be deterred from having you beside me as my wife? That there is none I could ever desire more?” Then harsher, “That I will challenge any male that dares to look your way?”

_Oh, Nori. Perhaps you pushed a little too hard?_ If… _when_ …Thorin found out about the deception, she hoped her nadad had a good hiding place lined up. 

“It is finished,” she said gravely. “This is done. I will not stray from your side again.”

“No more doubts?”

“No more doubts,” she agreed. “I’d intended to be on the road heading home before the end of Afteryule…ah, January.” A brief smile. “You beat me to it.” She coaxed his forehead to hers and sighed, eyes closing. “I’m so glad you came.”

The last vestiges of tension drained from his body. He kissed her lips gently, then he lowered her to the ground. After a last tender _(and possessive—squee!)_ look, her Thorin again grew in size, drawing around himself the mantle of kingship that always left her slightly in awe. A visual sweep of the fairgrounds must have yielded what he searched for. He grunted lowly, grasped Buttercup’s right hand in his left—keeping his sword hand free—and crossed the field, his boots crunching on dead, brittle grasses.

Hobbits parted like magic _(The Thorin Effect,_ she smirked privately), and the tromp of heavy boots informed her when Dwalin fell in behind them. A glance backward confirmed it, and earned her a private wink from the taciturn dwarf.

Behind him… Buttercup’s eyebrows winged upwards. Two Iron Hills dwarves—Magni and Althi—trailed behind Dwalin while carrying a ponderous trunk. Each of the pair was decidedly stern and officious of face, but when Magni’s gaze crossed Buttercup’s, the dwarf smiled so briefly she would have missed it had she blinked. 

_Curiouser and curiouser._ What was all this about? The proceedings had an air of formality about them, so she was certain they held meaning to her dwarves.

Thorin strode right up to Bilbo, who nervously straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. “You are earlier than we dared hope,” her dear brother proclaimed.

_…earlier than…?_ “You knew he was coming?” she demanded.

Bilbo flapped a hand at her. “Of course I knew. Wrote and asked him to hurry up about it if he wouldn’t mind,” her brother said without one ounce of shame. “I grew tired of watching my heartsick sister moping about.”

Mope? It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but Bilbo’s droll look told her not to try. Heat stole into her cheeks. Okay, so there had been moping. In all its unattractive blubberiness. 

“I received Master Baggins’s missive when we reached Rivendell, along with updates from Nori and Dori,” Thorin informed her, his thumb caressing the side of her hand and making it _very hard_ for a hobbit to pay attention to anything else, she wished it to be known. In a dry voice, he added, “I was informed my bride-to-be was pining away but she’d likely take another month or two to come to her senses.”

Bilbo had said what? She flushed red, her ears scalding hot. “Bilbo.” She shook her head. “You don’t just summon a _king.”_

“One does when the king in question wishes to marry his sister,” Bilbo argued, though he darted a nervous glance up at Thorin. By the Shire. Just what _had_ his adventure done to her big brother? 

Thorin’s smile was slow but genuine. Buttercup took care not to discover Dwalin’s reaction, though Dori blinked at Bilbo with surprise and Bofur looked highly entertained. 

“With gumption like that, it is a wonder you did not join my Company, Master Baggins,” Thorin said. “Though I confess, I am grateful you did not.” Thorin lifted their joined hands to his chest. “Behold, I am here as commanded.” A jerk of his head, and Magni and Althi stepped forward with their burden. 

Every eye in the field was glued to the scene, faces bright with curiosity. Low whispers flew as the two dwarves unlatched the trunk and pried its lid open. Out spilled golden coins. _Dozens_ of them.

The whispers grew louder, higher pitched. 

“The bride price,” Thorin proclaimed with pride. 

“The bri—what? What price?” Bilbo squeaked. He darted a look to Buttercup, and she shrugged her ignorance. She’d never heard of anything so odd. _Paying_ for a bride? If not for the so _noble_ (and deliciously magnificent) way Thorin stood there, and the way he refused to relinquish her hand, she’d have suspected her dwarves were having one over on her.

But Thorin, she believed, had never been more serious. _(Well, mayhap except when facing down Smaug. Or Thranduil. Or—_ She shushed the inner voice. He was serious. That was enough.)

“A tradition among my people,” Thorin explained softly, though Buttercup suspected every hobbit in the vicinity heard him. “I bring you that chest and three like it.” A fleeting smile. “The others we left under guard at Bag End.”

“F- _four?_ Chest of gold?” Bilbo stuttered. 

“The others contain different treasures,” came Dwalins deep voice. “Gemstones, most of them, with silver.”

_Gemstones,_ Bilbo mouthed. The siblings turned in unison to Thorin, a silent demand for explanation. 

Thorin’s lips curled upwards, and his free hand lifted to brush a stray curl off of Buttercup’s cheek. A spark ignited in his eyes when his fingers encountered a smudge of frosting. The sudden heat had her blushing harder, confound him. But by the Shire, if he found a frostinged Buttercup so mesmerizing, she’d be sure to be found in this state— _privately_ —as soon as could be arranged. 

_Only if he reciprocates,_ her Tookish side amended. 

Oooh. The rest of her quickly fell into agreement.

Dori coughed loudly and both would-be lovers jumped. Buttercup blushed. Thorin shot her nadad a half-thankful, half-irritated glance before directing his attention back to Bilbo. “The bride price,” Thorin explained, “is symbolic. It acknowledges the loss the bride’s family will suffer with the removal of a daughter or sister of worth from their household.”

Dori stepped forward to nudge Bilbo when her brother appeared ready to object. “It’s tradition, Master Baggins,” Dori said. “And very important to our people. Please accept it. Our king’s honor— _Erebor’s_ honor—hangs on this.”

Bilbo blinked.

“Unless the gift isn’t enough,” Nori tossed in. (Just when, Buttercup wished to know, had her sneaky nadad returned?) He twiddled his dagger between his fingers. A smirk appeared when Thorin’s glare cut his way. “You’re also forgetting, King under the Mountain, that the lass has three more brothers.”

“Nori!” Buttercup, Dori, and another voice objected. It was the last voice that had Buttercup spinning around. Forward marched a soul she hadn’t dreamed would leave the Lonely Mountain, one with a long and youthful face framed by ginger hair and his favorite gray hood. 

Ori stepped to his king’s opposite side, his chin high. “No, he hasn’t,” he told his middle brother. 

Buttercup reached across Thorin’s back, using her beloved’s arm as anchorage to span the distance, and grasped Ori’s hand. “You left your library. Ori…you adore your work there.” 

Ori assumed a haughty air. “The king’s courtship must be chronicled,” he explained somberly. Then he bristled. “Of course I came,” he said, a measure of hurt appearing in his eyes. “You’re my sister.”

He frowned at her good before his attention turned elsewhere. “I have accepted the king’s generous gift to the Ri household. We are satisfied.”

Buttercup attempted to reach Ori to hug him, but Thorin didn’t budge. He permitted her to drag his arm only so far behind his back before resisting. “Brother in need of a hug, here,” she hissed at him, to which Thorin cocked one eyebrow, glancing down at her from over one shoulder. Ori, bless him, closed the distance between them and hugged her tight enough to lift her off her feet. 

“Good, good. I’m sure it is acceptable,” she heard Dori say. Ori released her and nudged her back into position on Thorin’s left. Thorin’s swift glance and minute nod confirmed it: this was an event steeped in tradition and formality. 

Bilbo stepped closer to inspect his newfound wealth, his ears a tad red from all the attention he was getting. _Poor Bilbo._ After this, he’d be the most sought-after hobbit in all the Shire. Buttercup doubted the ramifications of his new abundance had yet occurred to him, or he’d be looking much more uncomfortable. 

She bit back a smile. Bilbo Baggins. The Shire’s most eligible bachelor. If Thorin wasn’t careful, his gifts could drive her brother to Erebor in search of a moment’s peace from the onslaught of feminine interest he was about to receive. 

Her clueless brother pawed through the treasure as if this was an everyday occurrence for him. Then turning to Thorin, he straightened and jerked on the hem of his jacket. “It is acceptable on one condition.”

“Name it.” Thorin’s hold on her turned possessive, though his face revealed nothing. 

“I wish to see my sister again. Either I will come to Erebor or you will permit her to come to me, but you will give me your word I will see her every five years _at bare minimum.”_ Piece said, Bilbo tucked thumbs into his pockets and waited.

Thorin inclined his head. “You have an open invitation to visit us at any time. I but ask you to notify us beforehand so that a proper escort can be arranged by my kinsmen. If it is inconvenient for you, I myself will bring Buttercup to the Shire.”

He would? They would? 

Buttercup bopped up and down excitedly, all set to burst into a full-on dance when Thorin decided he was not quite finished dropping jaws this day. “Is the Thane present?” he asked the assembly. 

More whispers. Sudden jostling, and Isumbras IV—her uncle, though she barely knew him given the sheer number of nephews and nieces he claimed—presented himself with both caution and interest written upon his lined face. “That would be me,” he said hesitantly. 

Thorin nodded regally. “I would have no question of strife between our kingdoms.” (Buttercup swallowed a smile to watch how her uncle’s bushy eyebrows vanished into his hairline. _Kingdoms. Heh.)_ “There will be no accusation that I removed a treasure of your land without compensation,” Thorin continued. “To that end, I have a fifth chest to deliver to you at your convenience. Is that satisfactory?”

“Thorin, that’s too much,” Buttercup managed. “I’m just—” She swallowed the rest, eyes widening when every blasted one of her males—Nori, Bofur, Dori, Bilbo and Thorin (a glance showed Dwalin and Ori, too, confound it)—adopted ferocious and identical scowls. Looking up into Thorin’s face, she thought better of finishing that sentence. 

“If you utter the words I believe you about to utter, I will grow wroth,” he warned. 

Yes, she definitely thought better than finishing that sentence. 

“Just” a hobbit. She’d told herself that for so long. She’d believed it, too. No longer. Looking at the sea of faces ready to do violence to that notion, the belief lost its hold on her. Bilbo’s words returned to her. 

Her brother was right. She’d faced a dragon. She’d fought for and by the Shire _earned_ a place among these dwarves. She’d faced ROUSes, and Azog, and a dragon-sick Thorin, by Yavanna. She’d sweat, bled and died in her Company’s defense.

“Just” a hobbit? Not hardly. 

And truly, while she was on the subject, was any soul “just” an anything? How dismissive! How insulting! None of her dwarves were “just” dwarves. No hobbit was “just” a hobbit. 

It was an epiphany. A sudden flash of insight brought on by all the love surrounding her. 

So with a secret little smile, the last doubts blowing away like dandelion threads, she freed her hand from Thorin’s so as to clamber onto his boots, an act she was positive was destined to be a lifelong habit. With the added height, she wrapped arms as far around his armored self _(confounded, interfering armor)_ as they would reach. “Thank you,” she told him, her chin on his chest and gaze upward.

He cocked one eyebrow, a silent demand for explanation.

“For showing me in so many ways how loved I am,” she said. “I’m touched, and I’m honored.” 

“Hey, now,” Bofur protested. “This isn’t a kitchen. You’re not supposed to be looking at him like that.”

Buttercup blushed beet red and buried her head in Thorin’s chest—or rather, tried to. Instead, she bonged her forehead against his dratted gear and winced as her abused skull informed her how stupid her action had been. 

Her love chuckled, his arms wrapping around her. Just how soon, she wondered, eyes on the joints of his armor, could she get him out of the tortuous contraption? Her eyes narrowed. It was evil. It kept her from Thorin. It must, she decided, be destroyed. 

“Can she not?” Thorin rumbled in amusement. “I’m certainly grateful to have a bride unable to keep her eyes off of me.” 

“Kitchens?” came Bilbo’s voice. 

Buttercup groaned aloud. “No,” she said, her voice rendered hollow by Thorin’s chestpiece. “If any of you speak one word of it to Bilbo, I will retaliate.” 

Lifting her chin, she said quite seriously, “I’m ready to be done with formalities, if you please.” She wanted to get her dwarf _alone._ She was not done holding him. Or kissing him. Or listening to his voice. 

Yes, alone sounded…nice. In Bag End’s warm environs where she could pamper her dwarf king…and his fellows…and maybe curl up on his un-armored lap?

“Is that so?” Thorin asked in a husky voice, a new light in his eyes. Why, he looked like a wolf about to pounce on the juicy rabbit, although _this_ rabbit was fine with some pouncing. _Respectable_ pouncing, of course. 

Was he, too, ready to not have an audience? _Cuddle time!_ Before she could ask (or burst into a precipitous victory dance), Thorin turned to the Thane. “Do you find my gift acceptable?”

Buttercup hugged her dwarf impatiently. She didn’t bother to watch as her uncle cleared his throat. “That would be…satisfactory. Yes, most satisfactory.”

Thorin grunted, the sound contented. Then in a voice pitched to carry, he announced, “My dear hobbits. Neither my bride nor I are overly fond of pomp and extended formalities. For this reason, it is my intent to cut them short.”

_Hurray!_

“I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain. Will you bear witness to my marriage to one of your own?” 

_Hurr_ —what?


	23. A Sugar-Laced Wedding

So it was that a fruit- and cream-streaked Buttercup Baggins married a blueberry-splotched King under the Mountain beneath the Party Tree with all of Hobbiton present to serve as witnesses. Thorin had no sooner presented his request to all and sundry when hobbits throughout the field cheered. As if choreographed, they ordered themselves and scattered, much (Buttercup giggled) to Thorin’s disbelief. 

“They will return?” he murmured, his voice thick with humor.

Buttercup reached up, succumbing to temptation. She plucked a chunk crust and blueberry from his beard and plopped it in her mouth. After chewing, she smirked. “Hobbits celebrate,” she informed him. “By calling upon them to serve as witnesses, you all but threw down the gauntlet.” At his faintly worried expression, she snickered. “Yes, they will return. But there is a _proper_ way to marry. I do hope you are content with our traditions.”

“So long as it makes you mine,” he said in that rumbley voice she loved so well, the one that never failed to give her the shivers, “I would consent to any traditions.” A pause. A thoughtful frown. “Except mayhap elvish, though I do owe Thranduil a debt.”

Now that was an interesting claim. “What do you mean?”

Thorin ran a hand through her messy curls, a small smile quirking his lips when his hand returned to him liberally coated with pudding and jam. She rejoiced to see him getting into the spirit of things, for the King under the Mountain gamely licked his fingers…at least until he caught her expression. Then growling low, he accepted the handkerchief Dori silently offered. 

Once finished cleaning his hand, Thorin’s head cocked to one side, his hooded gaze locked on to Buttercup. “Life is full of uncertainty,” he said. “A fact each of us knows well, but Thranduil more keenly than most, I have discovered. He lost his _thatr,_ his star. He told me that he would give much to have but one more minute with his wife.”

Thatr. It sounded close to what Thorin called her. “Star? Is that what you call me?”

Blue eyes burned down into hers. _“My_ star. Mine alone,” he said softly, fingering her cheek with exquisite gentleness. “My light. It was then I decided to heed the wisdom of one older than myself. I left Fíli to lead our people in my absence. Much, I admit, to his shock.” His smile flashed and faded just as quickly. “No more waiting, _Thatrê._ I intend to fill our years with as many bright memories as can be had.”

The people of Hobbiton chose that moment to return. Buttercup was dragged off—much to Thorin’s displeasure and her amusement (“This is your fault, my king,” she sang over her shoulder as she was led away)—and then it was time for Serious Business. 

Buttercup refused to consider a change of clothes much to Lobelia’s horror and (shockingly) Widow Proudfoot’s approval. As the matron declared to Lobelia, it was Buttercup, a daughter of the Tooks, that the dwarf king was wedding, not some stuffy Sackville or Bolger. If their Took’s wild curls and zeal for fun and mischief—which they had all benefited from this day, the widow had sniffed—was sufficient to woo a king, it was certainly fitting enough to be on display when wedding him. 

“Besides,” the widow had continued, “the girl looks fetching as she is. I don’t see Otho eyeing _you_ with such intensity, Lobelia. Perhaps instead of ridiculing your cousin, you should consider following her example.”

A handful of gasps, a couple muffled titters, and the matter was closed. Buttercup marveled. Forget Nori, she wanted to be Widow Proudfoot when she got older. When the gray-haired matron patted Buttercup on the cheek, Buttercup blinked rapidly to dispel a sudden rush of tears. Somehow, someway, attitudes towards her had changed this day.

 _The sugar,_ a part of her posited sagely. _Softens demeanors every time._ She made a mental note to ensure Erebor never ran low on the lovely white granules of perfection.

Returning them all to Serious Business, Peony Boffin passed Buttercup the requisite sugar cube. Buttercup tucked it into her glove to sweeten the marriage. (She wondered with inner chortles if she and Thorin weren’t destined to have the sweetest union _ever_ given the confection residue both wore.) Ruby Took, a distant cousin in her tween years, next handed Buttercup a bouquet of dried roses and lace. 

“Marrying a _king,”_ the young miss burbled with stars in her eyes. “This beats all, cousin.”

“No fresh flowers for her hair,” Primrose Maggot fretted. “It’s terrible luck.”

“I can help with that.” At the male intrusion into what was held as the exclusive domain of females, many a lass bristled, but when Widow Proudfoot saw what Ori held in his hands, the dwarf was summarily pulled to Buttercup’s location.

With dramatic flourish, her brother produced…

“Oh, _Ori.”_ Buttercup’s gloved fingertips hovered over the exquisite circlet of flowers. Anemones, daisies, gardenias, and lilies had been woven together with ribbons of blue and silver—Thorin’s colors—in perfection. The flowers’ colors… She sniffled as she read the message they proclaimed: honor, purity, joy, reciprocated affections, and expectation. She bent over to inhale the vibrant scents. “How did you know?”

Ori grinned sheepishly. “You did tell me of hobbit traditions during our journey.”

“I did?” She didn’t recall that. Granted, it seemed a lifetime ago, long before the never-ending day. 

“You did,” he averred. “The Elvenking was certain you would return as Thorin’s bride and asked for guidance on a proper gift from his kingdom. The elves’ magics will keep this fresh for years to come, or so he said.”

A second sniffle. A rapid blinking of watery eyes. 

“Let me help you with this.” Dori shouldered his way to her, ignoring the dark glares he received by a couple hobbits, foremost Lobelia.

“That is _my_ task,” her cousin told the dwarf tartly.

Dori looked her up and down. “Unless you’re a sister we’ve not heard about, I’m outranking you,” he said gently enough. He lifted the circlet from Ori’s hands, turned his back on Lobelia, and began to fuss over Buttercup’s frosting and jelly-caked curls. “Oh, namad.” He lifted one cherry gooped lock before her nose. “This is bound to stain your hair and the flowers.”

She nudged him gently. “Good.” At his marked surprise, she said, “This is perfect, Dori. Thorin’s marrying _me._ Not an impeccably coiffed miss in spotless attire that has never deigned to wrinkle. Me.” Then impishly, “I rather like the idea of the two of us a bit messy from the kitchens.”

Dori blushed. _Blushed._ He cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other before nodding abruptly. “Aye. Aye, I can see it.”

OoOoOo

Thorin glared at the backs of the mob of female hobbits who had stole his bride away. _Not,_ a part of him growled, _for long._ He did not know hobbit ways, but by Durin, he’d not tolerate a long, protracted ceremony such as both Balin and Dís would have insisted upon.

His lips lifted in a ghost of a grin. In this, Erebor’s king would have his say, and his bride, much sooner than would happen otherwise. 

His Buttercup’s brother, Bilbo, joined him. Rocking on his heels with hands in his pockets, the hobbit said, “She informed me you were a decisive sort. Still, I hadn’t quite imagined this.”

Thorin lifted one eyebrow. “You disapprove?”

“Oh, not at all. Most certainly not. I believe you’ve fulfilled my sister’s every girlhood dream this day.”

Had he? Satisfaction infused him with warmth. Thorin’s hobbit had endured hardships he’d never have permitted had he been free to object. Though a year had passed, the images of finding her broken and torn body dozens of times lingered in his mind. Letting her go without his sword to guard her, with only a wizard and three dwarves by her side, had been…difficult. 

His mind flashed to memories of taking his worry and frustration out on the training grounds with Dwalin. That, he’d never share with his bride. She’d needed the time—his heart had recognized it—but it had been contrary to everything in his nature to let her go. He’d lost enough in his life. To lose her now? The fear had haunted him. 

Then that letter. A hobbit male dared to plot and scheme to woo Thorin’s _thatr_ away. 

_Coward._ The spineless fool hadn’t the courage to make himself known even to Thorin’s Buttercup. Proof he did not deserve a lass so courageous. 

_Smart,_ an inner voice wryly countered, for if the hobbit had worked up the nerve to declare himself, Thorin was not altogether positive he’d have been able to restrain himself.

 _It is done._ This day, Buttercup would be his wife. By Mahal, he’d dreamed of the children they would have, almost afraid to hope for so much. His was a blessed life, and well he knew it. Instead of a cold tomb beside his sister-sons, he lived. _They_ lived. He was to be wed. As soon, a part of him snorted, as the hobbits deemed everything prepared just so. 

“How much longer?” he murmured to Bilbo. Exhaustion weighed upon his shoulders. He’d never admit it aloud, but he was nearing the end of his reserves. There had been no stopping him, nor his dwarves, once they’d received Nori’s missive. By Mahal, Thorin intended nothing more than to wed his adorably messy hobbit, love her thoroughly from head to toe, and sleep. The last two, he envisioned repeating to the couple’s content over the next week. Perhaps two.

Bilbo smirked up at him—Durin knew, Thorin was grateful the short male was so free with him since most of the hobbits continued to give Thorin a wide berth. “Not long now.” Then with a rush of nerves, Bilbo said, “Will your people view the ceremony as binding?”

“They will,” he immediately assured. “I have witnesses among my own people aplenty. Doubtless my sister will insist upon a celebratory feast upon our return to Erebor, but the marriage will not be in question.” 

Then it was time. In a strange tradition, Bilbo maneuvered Dwalin to Thorin’s side to act as his “best comrade”—an archaic tradition Bilbo claimed originated from men and not hobbits at all, and given the hobbit’s explanation, Thorin believed him. He could little imagine a hobbit stealing away his bride by force and needing a sword brother to guard his back. 

Regardless, if Thorin _had_ been forced to steal away his Buttercup, Dwalin most certainly would have protected his back. The role, therefore, was most appropriately bestowed upon his friend.

Next came music. A procession of ladies—many as sticky with sugar as his Buttercup—danced their way towards Thorin and Dwalin, only to split and dance to the sidelines where their proud mates and families stood watching. In their wake, Thorin was surprised (he shouldn’t have been, he admitted) to see they’d left behind a veritable carpet of sugar cubes, a path upon which his Buttercup walked on Bilbo’s arm to him.

By Durin’s beard, had ever there been a more enchanting sight than his Buttercup? Her blond curls had grown during their time apart and hung now to her mid back. The curls enthralled him, for they bounced with such life as to perfectly mirror their bearer. Currently, they sported big dollops of icing, puddings, and fruit, but that was his lass. She would never be coldly beautiful; she was warmth and sunlight and sweetness.

When the duo reached Thorin’s position, Bilbo pressed Buttercup’s hand into Thorin’s with a tight-lipped and wobbly smile. “Treat her well.”

“I shall.” And he would.

The ceremony was a blur. The Thane himself directed the proceedings, and a more nervous or flattered hobbit, Thorin suspected, would never be found. Thorin would later remember his Buttercup beaming radiantly, her smile not once faltering. He’d remember her heartfelt words to cleave to him, to love and honor him all her days. He would recall his own fervent oath to her in return, and the subsequent binding of their hands together, symbolizing, she explained, their union. 

Then it was done. They were wed amid much cheering by hobbits and dwarves alike. Thorin scooped up his _wife_ —he’d never tire of the sound of that—and kissed her deeply. 

After, there was merriment. Thorin and his dwarves were welcomed to partake in the feast the hobbits had already assembled, and right then and there, he suspected a couple of his warriors lost their hearts to this people. If a couple hobbit lasses did not eventually make their way to Erebor as wives, it would not be from lack of trying on his people’s part. The trade Thorin hoped to establish with the Thane before departing would serve as an avenue for any dwarf fancying himself a hobbit wife of his own. 

There was dancing, even a Ladies’ Dance where the lasses grabbed tambourines and danced around the bonfire. (By Mahal, he’d almost disrupted the dance altogether, for _his_ Buttercup let it be known by her gaze that she danced for Thorin alone.)

There was drinking. There was food and merrymaking 

Thorin tolerated it. As much as he’d have preferred to have his wife to himself, one glance at her joy was enough to keep him there in the crowd of party-goers. 

At last, Bilbo pulled him aside. “Widow Proudfoot has offered up her home for your honeymoon—your time alone,” Bilbo clarified with heated cheeks. “She will visit her grandchildren for two weeks, and as her gift to you, offers up her house and larder.”

That widow, Thorin determined, would be well repaid for her generosity. A short stop at Bag End permitted his blushing wife to retrieve any personal belongings she’d need, then a short walk down Bag Shot Row and lower down the hill took them to the widow’s humble smial.

Thorin swept his hobbit off her feet and carried her across the threshold. Life was truly sweet.

OoOoOo

Nerves were to blame.

Yes, nerves. Buttercup delayed the marriage bed—by the Shire, she yearned for Thorin but the unknown left her a touch (just a touch, mind!) jittery. Instead of rushing things, she insisted they clean up a bit. It would be dreadfully rude to get fruit stains on Widow Proudfoot’s linens.

So, she bathed, growing frustrated the longer it took to get the congealed blobs of food from her curls. If she’d had straight hair, this would _not_ be a problem, but she was cursed with this unruly mess. 

By the time she was clean, her nerves were in full flight. _Oh, Thorin._ A deep inhale. She marched out of the bathroom and into the bedroom she was to share with _her husband._ (She squealed inside at the sound of that.) Lingering in the doorway, she drank in the sight of him.

He was all hers. For life. From his bare feet—why, there was no hair on the tops of his feet!—to the broad expanse of his hairy chest (her eyes lingered there happily before moving upward) to the crown of his head. He’d cleaned himself up—the blueberry was utterly stamped out—and dressed in light trousers, likely in an attempt to calm his blushing bride. 

A bride more than happy to show her new husband how much she appreciated his gentleness.

She stepped closer. Frowned. He wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving?

A big grin slowly stretched her lips upwards, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, dwarf warrior, and new husband…was sound asleep. 

Buttercup crept closer. Sure enough, his eyes were sealed shut, and his breaths were deep and even. Tenderness welled up, for he truly looked exhausted. _Wearing himself out to thwart an evil hobbit suitor who never existed,_ she thought with a muffled giggle. 

This tale, she thought, would never leave these rooms. “Your secret is safe with me,” she whispered.

She climbed into bed beside him, her nightgown bunching up around her knees. “Mercy, Thorin. You sure know how to whisk a hobbit off her feet.” When she’d said she wished the formalities cut short, she’d had no idea he’d take her literally. 

A smirk. It was rather like him. Thorin was not known for his patience.

That he was impatient for _her_ … Well, what lass wouldn’t be flattered? 

Buttercup fingered a lock of black hair from his forehead before placing a kiss in its place. Snuggling up close by his side, she relaxed with her head pillowed upon his chest, joyous laughter shaking her frame.

Perhaps this wasn’t how she’d anticipated her wedding night unfolding—by Yavanna, she’d expected less sleeping and more blueberries—but it was a _good_ ending. She and Thorin were married. Buttercup had a lifetime to explore Determined Thorin, Grumpy Thorin, and (inward wiggle of delight) Kitchen Thorin. 

Buttercup inched closer. Though her husband did not rouse, Thorin’s arm snaked around her and locked her to his side. She happily rubbed her cheek against his chest, marveling at the new and wondrous sensation. 

Gratitude turned her thoughts toward Eru and the Valar. “Thank you,” she whispered, for surely, this gift was from them. If not for that wretchedly repeating day, she’d never have mustered up the courage to tell Thorin how she felt. Even had Thorin survived the Battle of Five Armies that first time, Buttercup would have slunk away, silent and heartsick.

Taking Thorin’s _thatr_ with her without either of them even knowing the treasure they’d lost. 

Yes, much thanks was owed. 

She fell asleep to the sound of her love’s steady breaths, a smile on her lips.


	24. Epilogue: Sugar Dumplings and Marital Bliss

_**31 Foreyule TA 2952  
(Ten years later)** _

Buttercup Khajimaith Baggins, Queen under the Mountain, skated across smooth stone floors on scandalously _stockinged_ feet. Bilbo, she supposed, would be stunned, but with many a winter under her belt, this hobbit had learned a sad truth. A hobbit who cared about her creature comforts was a hobbit who bundled up her tootsies come winter. 

Erebor was not the Shire, and its halls adopted a definite chill when snow arrived. While far from dangerous, Buttercup preferred not to subject herself to more coldness than necessary, thank you very much. No clammy toes for her.

Unfortunately, the miscreant dragging her along as fast as he could run had discovered he could take advantage of her stockinged state. Though she clung to his tunic with both hands, she slowed the shorter culprit not one bit. Stockings provided no traction. (Though truly, she asked herself, would traction help? Her two eldest sons, neither of them older than nine, were _both_ stronger than their mama.)

Case in point: the dwarfling speeding along before her. His short, muscular legs powered them past dozens of gaping, bearded witnesses despite having an adult hobbit affixed to his tunic.

 _Because this needed witnesses,_ a part of her lamented. Yet another escapade that would be the talk of the mountain for months to come. How, she wanted to know, did she always land herself in these situations?

This, she vowed, was Nori’s fault. And hers, for she’d named her second child after her nadad. Norin’s older brother, Westlin, was infinitely better behaved. 

“Norin! I’m warning you, mister. Stop this instant,” she thundered at the back of her son’s blond head. The shaggy-haired imp broke into peals of laughter, the bare slaps of his feet never faltering. 

She gasped in outrage. The dwarfling thought this was a _game?_

Norin rounded a corner, and Buttercup’s eyes widened as she swung in a wide arc in his wake, forcing visiting dignitaries assembled to join them in the Yule festivities this day—including _Legolas,_ she groaned—to leap out of the way. She tossed a weak smile back over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she mouthed to the elven prince.

She doubted he saw it since the elf was too busy folding over with gut-deep laughter. _Humperdink._

Truly? She’d known she was falling behind, what with children to feed and dress, and presents to wrap, never mind finding the time to get _herself_ together… But the guests had begun to arrive?

 _Fabulous. And just in time for the show._ (Sigh.) 

Buttercup prodded her lips into a sheepish smile as her son dragged her past Bard and his family. She’d have lifted a hand to wiggle some fingers, but she was _not_ about to let the dwarfling loose. He was not escaping her this time.

Another wide turn carried dam and son from the King’s Way (and the host of amused eyes) onto a less heavily trafficked byway. By that, Buttercup assumed Mahal had decided to grant her mercy, and it was well he did. This was _his_ fault, too. How _dare_ he design his dwarves’ offspring to be so confoundedly strong? What had he been _thinking? Oh, that’s right. He_ didn’t have to raise them.

Buttercup grimaced as another change of direction sent her feet in another wild arc in her son’s wake. Norin’s unborn sibling gyrated nauseatingly within her belly, letting it be known that he was not terribly happy with their current predicament. Either that or the traitor was enjoying their unexpected ride—a possibility she could not dismiss with half-Durin, half-Took offspring. 

A subsequent wiggling in her abdomen confirmed it: Norin’s second, unwitting passenger was having the time of his life. 

_Another boy, Thorin,_ she informed her absent spouse grumpily. A daughter would not be so rude to her mama…or so Buttercup hoped, for she dearly wished for a couple girls. _This_ hobbit was getting _severely outnumbered_ —severely!—in a household of males. 

Norin’s pedaling legs carried them to Merchants’ Row, one of the busiest parts of the kingdom after the King’s Way and forges. Bright booths decorated for Yule and laden with a whole array of goods flew by in a blur, and Buttercup longed to hide her face in her fingers as Erebor’s merchants and shoppers—and visiting men—were forced to leap out of the way or suffer a collision with the queen and prince careening towards them. 

“Norin,” she tried in a harder voice. 

The seven year old shot her the most _infuriatingly_ rebellious look over one shoulder before putting on a greater burst of speed. 

Truly? All this over not wishing to eat his vegetables? Why, she’d even coated the greens with a cheese sauce. They were delectable! Exquisite!

But not, apparently, to one dwarfling’s tastes. _(Sniff._ It was clear he’d inherited his palate from his father, so really, this was Thorin’s fault, too.)

Her temper fired all the hotter. She was pregnant, by Yavanna. Exhausted from both the preparations for the annual Yule Festival ready to begin any _confounded_ minute now (and by the Shire, she still had a mountain’s worth of tasks to finish before all would be as she’d intended) and from lack of sleep since Norin’s fretting younger brother, Dorin, had kept her up all night with his fussing. 

Crabby did not do Buttercup Khajimaith Baggins justice, and her son had chosen the _wrong time_ to push his amâd. She might be slenderer. She might be weaker. But by her dwarfling’s scruffy beginnings of a beard, she was _still his mama._

Norin weaved among the shoppers, many of which were likely rushing to and fro making last-minute purchases for Yule. Buttercup spotted Nori at one point as she and her son whizzed by, and his wife Signí, too. The dam covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide in a picture of sisterly sympathy. Nori, the wretch, burst into wild hoots. 

She spotted Gimli, Gloin’s son, too. The warrior-to-be dropped what he was doing—quite loudly and literally—and gave chase after them. 

Now _he,_ she thought, was a hero. And he had just earned himself the present she’d labored over for Nori, by the Shire. Nori would go present-less, the traitor, and that was that.

Norin must have glimpsed his kinsman closing in upon them out of one eye, for the dwarfling abruptly changed course. The little hellion abandoned the major pathways in favor of a cramped aisle between the perfume and pastry booths. 

_Oh. No._ This…could not be good. Despite the disaster staring her in the face, Buttercup tightened her grip until her knuckles ached. She refused to let her rogue-in-the-making escape so easily. 

Out swung Buttercup in Norin’s wake. Her hip bumped into the baker’s stall hard enough to bruise…and nudge dozens of pastries off of the shelves forming the stall’s eastern edge. _Splat, splat, splat._ Down rained cupcakes, strudels, and donuts.

That. Was. It. Using her hold on her son’s tunic for leverage, she awkwardly vaulted onto the dwarfling’s back. Norin stumbled, arms flailing, but he did not go down. 

Instead, this infuriatingly obstinate son of hers dared—yes, _dared!_ —to spin in circles in an effort to dislodge her, his arms batting at her. “Off, Amâd. Off!”

 _Off?_ Oh, if _that_ was what he wanted… Buttercup slipped from him, grabbed hold of one pointed ear…and twisted. 

Norin yelped loud enough to bring down the rafters, teetered as he lost his balance, and Buttercup’s moment of victory? Well, it died violently as dwarfling bounced into dam, dam lost her footing and both toppled against the back edge of the baker’s shelves. Down went shelves with a deafening _CRASH,_ down went dwarfling and dam, and down fluttered the bright blue ribbons that had gaily adorned the booth before the kingdom’s royal family had arrived.

_Bother._

In the end, Buttercup laid there, staring up at the arched ceiling high overhead. Her rear end was smushed in a wet, gelatinous substance and her head was pillowed on—a quick check out of the corner of one eye—a donut that had, upon impact, vomited up its filling. 

Huh. So that’s what was on her cheek and neck. Good to know.

Parenthood. It was the ultimate adventure. 

With a vindictive grin, Buttercup scooped up the carcass of a ruined jam pie by her side and smashed it into her son’s hair. With any luck, it would stain enough to make bath time all the simpler the rest of this week.

OoOoOo

Buttercup marched home with chin lifted. Yes, her victory had been a messy one, but by the Shire, she’d emerged triumphant. One misbehaving dwarfling had been netted and trudged beside her dejectedly. (Her Took side threw one fist into the air. _One point to Amâd!_ She’d have said, “Woo-wee and pass the pie,” but she was quite sugared up enough, thank you very much.)

Elves and dragons, but she was a mess. Still, it _was_ her tenth anniversary, so it was, in a sense, eminently fitting. Buttercup was positive sugar was to blame for the fact that she’d left Widow Proudfoot’s home pregnant at the conclusion of her honeymoon. 

Her lips quirked the teensiest, tiniest bit, a fact Norin failed to notice being consumed with inspecting his feet as he was. It was the only reason she permitted herself latitude to smirk. By the Shire, raising dwarfling-faunts was a challenge, but there was not a day she regretted her growing brood. 

Woebegone eyes darted her way, and Buttercup hastily rearranged her features into lines of disapproval. “I’m sorry, Amâd,” Norin sniffled.

Buttercup paused a moment to drive the laughter from her voice before responding in an even tone, “I appreciate that, Norin.”

“I didn’tst mean to almost get you hurt.”

Ah, so _that’s_ what had reached him. Not the destruction of his hair. Not her scolding words. Not the ear tweak, though she knew from experience how that smarted. It was…

“Do we gots to tell Adâd?” emerged in the most pitiful of voices.

…the wrath of his sire he feared. Her husband, she snickered privately, had his sons utterly fooled. He might be stern outwardly, but Buttercup’s light-o-love was putty where his children were concerned. He _hated_ having to discipline them. “I think we do,” she told him.

Norin’s footsteps dragged all the heavier. “But I’m _sorry.”_

“I’m sure your adâd will be glad to hear that.”

OoOoOo

Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, greeted his guests warmly from within his throne room, even the elves who had come to join Erebor in its new Yule festivities at the queen’s behest. Thorin’s Buttercup had developed a fondness for Legolas and Thranduil, and Thorin himself had made his peace with the elven sovereign over the years. He doubted he would ever label the elf a friend, but…ally? Aye, allies, they were.

Yule. The king’s lips lifted in a smirk as his gaze touched upon the green wreaths that adorned the walls of the throne room, each laden with blue and silver ribbons. The green smell, Thorin admitted, pleased him well, as did celebrating this holiday that meant so much to his wife. 

Truth be told, it meant much to Thorin, too, for it never failed to remind him of the day he wedded his wife. The day Buttercup became his in truth. A blessed day. 

“I’m here!” 

At the sound of his precious eldest son’s voice— _ **My** son,_ a part of him marveled even nine years after the lad’s birth—he turned to find Prince Westlin beaming up at him, his aunt Dís behind him with a gentle smile on her face. A swift glance failed to locate Buttercup, so Thorin assumed his sister had escorted Thorin’s son to him to alleviate Buttercup of one child. Doubtless both Norin and Dorin were handful enough for the queen.

“So you are.” Thorin set one palm on the crown of his son’s curly black head of hair. “Happy Yule, my son.”

Big blue eyes smiled up at him. “Happy Yule, Adâd,” Westlin said with dignity. The lad’s attention was quickly captured by their guests, but he remained quietly by Thorin’s side, content to watch and listen.

 _Unlike his younger brother._ Norin, Thorin knew, would be racing about, as full of energy as his amâd. Both were ever bobbing on their feet or rushing here and there on some business of their own. 

To Dís, Thorin murmured, “My queen?”

An amused sideways glance came his way. “Norin did not wish to eat his greens.”

Thorin muffled his chortle with a cough. “I take it there has been a clashing of wills?”

“It was in progress as Westlin and I made our exit,” Dís averred. 

Norin was a handful, all right, but Thorin knew his wife would gain the upper hand. Eventually. 

By Mahal, little had he and his sweet wife known how correct they’d been to wonder what they’d unleash by marrying their bloodlines. Westlin, Thorin candidly admitted, had lulled them into a false sense of security. From the day he’d arrived twelve months after his conception (Thorin maintained the blessed event had occurred the morning after their wedding, for he’d awoken to find his Buttercup sitting beside him on the bed, adorably sleep-mussed with a bowl of butterscotch pudding in hand and… a dwarf could only withstand so much temptation), the lad had been well-behaved, curious about anything and everything, and more inclined to watch than pepper amâd and adâd with questions.

Norin was Westlin’s complete foil, down to their appearances. Where Westlin had Thorin’s black hair and his mother’s curls, Norin had his mother’s golden locks and father’s straighter hair. Where Westlin would think before he spoke or acted, Norin had a full measure (and then some, Thorin suspected) of both Took and Durin rashness. Westlin was slender for a dwarf; Norin was bulky and muscular. Westlin’s ears were more rounded than pointed; Norin’s ears were pure hobbit. 

“I love Yule, Adâd,” Westlin said, his right hand latching onto Thorin’s belt and hanging there. 

“So do I, Westlin. So do I,” Thorin said. He followed his son’s example, scanning the room. By Durin, this new tradition had broken down so many barriers. Both nobles and those of common birth received equal welcome, as did both men and elves. 

_And hobbits._

Thorin’s eyes gleamed. Within five years of his own marriage, no less than four other dwarves had wooed and wed hobbit lasses of their own. 

Bersi, for one. Thorin’s gaze quickly located the couple. The Captain of the newly formed Queen’s Guard had availed himself of the first opportunity to present itself—namely, Buttercup’s first return to the Shire four years after her marriage to Thorin—to introduce himself to one Maple Overhill. The blond bachelor had pursued the pie-making lass with single minded intensity. 

Bersi won her, too, much to Buttercup’s delight. _And_ the rest of Erebor’s once the Lonely Mountain’s populace had gotten a taste of Maple’s creations. 

The hobbits of the Shire had been less pleased. The following year, relations between Erebor and the Shire had been strained, making the wooing of Lily Took, Beryl Goldenlocks, and Daisy Proudfoot—granddaughter to none other than the Widow Proudfoot—all the trickier, but won the lasses were, much to their husbands’ delight. Thorin found two of the lasses beside their husbands, Althi and (a development that had stunned them all) Dori. 

Daisy was nowhere to be seen, but that did not surprise Thorin. The lass was in her twelfth month of pregnancy and liable to deliver her first child to Bofur’s friend Jarar any day. 

Thorin’s chest burned with pride, for this was his wife’s doing. Friendship, he saw all around him. Peace. Yule had become a time to fellowship with his own people and those of the neighboring kingdoms and towns, for not only did the men of Dale join Erebor this day, but the peoples of Lake-town, the Iron Hills, the Woodland Realm…

…and one Shireling. “Bilbo,” Thorin greeted. With Westlin silently affixed to his side, Thorin swiftly made his way to his brother-by-marriage. “You arrived.” Her brother’s presence was the only gift Thorin’s wife had wished this year, and by Mahal, Thorin had done everything in his power to make it happen. 

“A bit chapped and cold, but here I am,” the hobbit agreed with a smile.

“Uncle Bilbo!” Westlin threw his arms around his uncle and squeezed him tight.

Bilbo returned the hug and patted Westlin’s back. “Dear me, Westlin. You have grown! Let me get a look at you…”

It was while Bilbo and Westlin greeted one another that the Elvenking drew Thorin aside, his expression a mixture of sympathy and amusement. “I believe you wife is in need of your assistance.”

OoOoOo

_Your wife is in need of your assistance._

Thorin had no notion what to expect after the Elvenking’s vague words. Prince Legolas’s soft laughter as Thorin strode past him along the King’s Way assured that no harm had befallen his _thatr,_ yet the too-sympathetic looks from others told him something had occurred. 

His pace accelerated to a jog. Buttercup should have been with their children on their way to join the festivities. What could possibly have…?

He stopped in his tracks as his wife and Norin rounded a corner and came into view. Silence replaced the low chatter of his guests behind him. Thorin didn’t know whether to groan into a palm or laugh. His beautiful wife’s hair was a tangled mess down her back. What looked to be powdered sugar liberally dusted the crown of her head in white, and her neck and cheek were smeared with jam. 

_Strawberry,_ he mused, lips twitching. _Or raspberry perhaps._

Norin had fared no better. Thorin’s blond-haired rascal was filthy with colorful frostings and cake and cooking crumbs, and his hair—Norin’s pride and joy—was saturated in a fruit filling of some sort. The dwarfling stared at his feet, the picture of dejection, utterly unaware of Thorin’s presence…or the way his parents both fought back laughter as their eyes met.

 _*Dare I ask what happened?*_ Thorin signed to his wife in the dwarven sign language of Iglishmêk. 

His wife’s lips quirked in a wicked grin. “Norin? Why don’t you give your adâd a hug?”

OoOoOo

Much later, after presents had been gifted, the feast had concluded, and revelers had retired to their guest quarters within Erebor, Buttercup curled up on her husband’s lap within the privacy of their bedchamber, her hair a mess she’d decided to tackle in the morning. _It’s mostly dried already, anyway,_ a part of her sighed.

The damage was done. She, like her son, was doomed to sport pink hair the rest of the week. 

With a yawn, Buttercup set her head on her love’s fruit-crusted chest. Elves and dragons, she was exhausted, but the day had been perfect. 

_Not perfect,_ her Baggins side corrected, mourning that the finishing touches to the decorations had not been finished, the yule tree had proved too small for the number of hand-crafted ornaments each guest had presented as asked, and the...

 _Perfect,_ the rest of her reaffirmed. Time surrounded by beloved friends and family was always perfect. Even when it wasn’t. 

“You’re sticky,” Thorin murmured with a soft chuckle into her hair.

“Story of my life,” she agreed, leaning her head back against the crook of his shoulder so that she could see his face. “At least this time, no dwarflings will result from it.” One hand idly patted her rounded belly in demonstration. 

Thorin smirked. One black eyebrow winged upwards. “Then we’ll revisit this moment in another handful of months.”

“Handful?” she sputtered. “Look here, King under the Mountain. This is pregnancy number four. _Four.”_ She lifted four fingers to drive the point home. “If I’d known dwarrow carried their progeny for _fourteen months,”_ she half-heartedly grumbled with narrowed eyes, “I might have rethought this whole procreation business.”

Her husband, well-inured to such comments after three pregnancies, smirked. “No, you wouldn’t have. You, my dear wife, find me…what did you call it? Scrumptious.”

Bam! There went her cheeks. “I most certainly would have,” she said, smoothing hands over her distended belly. “And I’m sure I’ve never used such words to describe you.” 

Thorin laughed, the sound ripe with joy. “You, _Thatrê,_ are a terrible liar.” A pause. A smirk. “I have witnesses.”

She tried to glare, truly she did, but his laughter was too infectious. She conceded, flapping one hand. Then in a wry voice, “If I had to carry Westlin to full dwarf term, he’d have been an only child. Nine months is the norm, Thorin. _Nine._ Thanks to you, I get three additional months of this.” She gestured to her belly. 

Her husband had the gall to chuckle. 

The _nerve._ He’d change his tune if _he_ had to carry their progeny. “Just for that, I may put my foot down,” she warned. “Especially if this one is male, too.” She sniffed. “You could find yourself summarily banished from my bed.”

“My bed,” he murmured.

She wiggled some fingers. “Semantics.”

“Barred from my wife’s bed, hmm?” His eyes heated and hooded. “Is that a challenge, _Thatrê?”_ he cooed, a wide and devilish grin claiming his lips. 

What? Oh, no. No, no, no. One did _not_ challenge Durins. “Did I say that? I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t dream—”

He continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “A good thing, then, that once our babe is born, I have a fully stocked kitchen with which to woo my bride back where she belongs.”

 _“My_ kitchen is always fully stocked,” she countered. “I’ll simply command the Queen’s Guard…” Thorin’s second wedding gift to her, and a more handy one she couldn’t imagine. “…to bar you from the premises.”

He clucked his tongue much as Westley used to do, and she felt a pang. She missed her friend. Upon returning to Erebor, she’d discovered he’d deemed it high time to collect his own Buttercup. Whether she’d ever see him again was in doubt, for years had passed with no word. 

“I have a secret weapon,” Thorin assured her.

Huh. He did, did he? “What might that be?”

Her husband nibbled on her ear— _so_ not fair—before breathing, “Brace yourself.”

With his lips tugging on her earlobe like that? Buttercup fumbled for a scrap of coherent thought while delightful zings traveled from her ears to the tips of her toes.

“Are you ready?”

What? Why was he still talking?

His next words had her eyes flying open. “Bilbo shared his hot chocolate recipe with me.”


End file.
